LANDMARKS 

OF 

A    LITERARY    LIFE. 


.  Low.  Marlon  &C° 


."wan  Lleclric  Enfrivin*  C° 


LANDMARKS 


OF 


A   LITERARY    LIFE 

1820-1892. 


BY 

MRS.  NEWTON    CROSLAND, 

(CAMILLA  TOULMIN) 

AUTHOR    OF 

MRS.  BLAKE,"  "  HUBERT  FREETH's  PROSPERITY,"  "  THE  DIAMOND  WEDDING, 
"STORIES  OF  THE  CITY  OF  LONDON,"  ETC. 


I  feel  like  one  who  treads  alone 

Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled,  whose  garlands  dead, 

And  all  but  he,  d&pr.rted  '>"  *   ^     , 

THOI.IAS  MOORE. 


NEW    YORK: 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

743  &  745,  BROADWAY 
1893 


TO  THE  BELOVED  FRIEND, 

WHOSE  AFFECTION   AND   SYMPATHY  HAVE   BEEN    TO   ME   FOR 

TWENTY   YEARS   A   SOLACE   IN  SORROW, 

AND  THE  HEIGHTENER  OF   EVERY  HAPPINESS, 

TO 

EDITH    MILNER, 

THE  LOVER  OF  LITERATURE,   AND  WIELDER  OF  THE   PEN 
IN   MANY  DEPARTMENTS  OF  IT,    PATRIOT  AND   PHILANTHROPIST, 

I   DEDICATE  MY  RECOLLECTIONS. 
THOUGH   BELONGING  HERSELF   BY   BIRTH,    AND   ESSENTIALLY, 

TO  THE  PALMIEST  DAYS  OF  THE  VICTORIAN   ERA, 
SHE  EVER  LOOKS   BACK  WITH  LOVE  AND  REVERENCE  TO 

ALL  THAT  IS  GREAT  IN  THE   PAST, 
RECOGNIZING  THE  JEWELS   OF  THOUGHT  AND  ACTION   WHICH 

THE  DUST  OF  TIME  CAN   ONLY   FOR  A  WHILE  OBSCURE, 
AND   STRETCHES  FORTH  HER  HANDS  TO  THE   FUTURE,   WITH 

ANXIOUS   HOPE  AND  EARNEST  ENDEAVOUR  TO 

PLAY  HER  PART  OF   USEFULNESS  WITH  ENERGY  AND  DEVOTION. 
THEREFORE   IT  IS  THAT  TO   HER,  AS  A  LINK   BETWEEN 

A  GREAT  PAST  AND  THE  UNCERTAIN   FUTURE, 

I    OFFER    THIS    LITTLE    TRIBUTE    AS    A    TOKEN    OF 

MY  LOVE  AND  ADMIRATION. 

CAMILLA  CROSLAND. 


327158 


PREFACE. 


NOTWITHSTANDING  the  truth  which  underlies  the 
French  proverb,  "  Qui  s*  excuse  s1  accuse"  I  think  it  is 
often  wise  to  own  one's  fault  without  waiting  for  the 
arraignment  of  another  accuser.  I  find  that  in  the 
following  pages  the  personal  pronoun  "  I "  is  more 
obtrusive  than  I  thought  it  would  be  when,  in  my 
opening  chapter,  I  alluded  to  my  intention  of  keeping 
it  very  much  in  the  background.  These  recollections 
have  been  produced  under  the  impediments  of  defec- 
tive sight  and  an  afflicted  right  hand ;  consequently 
the  handwriting  was  often  so  execrable  that  my  dim 
eyes  read  it  with  difficulty,  and  the  patience  of 
printers  must  have  been  sorely  tried.  Therefore  I 
could  not  give  my  work  the  prolonged  personal 
revision  which  every  manuscript  demands  from  its 
author.  Yet,  on  reflection,  I  feel  how  nearly  impos- 
sible it  would  have  been  to  relate  what  I  had  to  tell 
without  myself  appearing  on  the  scene. 

Old  age  has  its  privileges  as  well  as  its  penalties  ; 
four   score   years   bring   infirmities,  as   a   matter   of 


VI 11  PREFACE. 

course ;  but,  were  I  younger,  I  should  have  had  less 
to  relate.  This  seems  to  me  the  place  in  which  to 
acknowledge  my  obligation  to  Mr.  Henry  Johnson 
for  his  zealous  and  judicious  assistance  in  seeing  my 
"  Landmarks "  through  the  press ;  a  task  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  undertake  unaided. 

The  composition  of  this  book  has  had  painful 
as  well  as  pleasant  phases.  It  has  called  to  mind 
lost  opportunities  and  errors  of  judgment,  and  made 
me  sigh  anew  for  the  "  touch  of  a  vanished  hand  ; " 
but,  also,  it  has  given  me  heartfelt  pleasure  to  speak, 
with  knowledge,  of  the  great  and  good  whom  it  has 
been  my  privilege  to  count  among  my  friends,  and, 
it  may  be,  to  rescue  some  little  facts  from  the  verge 
of  that  oblivion  which  they  seemed  near. 

To  critical  readers  I  must  bow  my  head  ;  but  I  ask 
sympathetic  ones  to  accept  my  gratitude  in  advance, 
for  there  is  no  guerdon  like  that  of  sympathy  to  one 
who  uses  the  pen  as  a  means  of  communicating  with 
other  minds. 

C.  C. 

July  12th,  1893. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGS 

Hearsay  and  childish  recollections — Waterloo — Reception  of  the 
news  of  the  battle,  and  anecdotes — The  purser  of  the  Victory 
— The  Birmingham  riots — George  the  Third  and  Queen 
Charlotte — Ball  at  Carlton  House  ...  ...  ...  I 


CHAPTER  II. 

Hearsay  and  childish  recollections,  continued—  French  immigrants 

in  London — Paris  in  1819 — Death  of  George  the  Third      ...       1 6 

CHAPTER  III. 
Coronation  of  George  the  Fourth — And  recollections  of  his  reign      31 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Mrs.  Davison  and  her  son,  the  future  musical  critic  of  the  Times 
— A  glimpse  of  Miss  O'Neill,  Miss  S.  Booth,  and  an  anecdote 
of  the  "Young  Roscius" — Edmund  Kean — Charles  Kemble 
— Malibran  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  43 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  British  Legion  in  Spain — Education  for  women — The  old 
reading-room  of  the  British  Museum — Accession  of  Queen 
Victoria  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  58 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

PAGE 

The  brothers  Chambers— The  "forties"— "  Delta"— The  sister 

of  Burns       ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...       74 

CHAPTER  VII. 

The  annuals  and  the  Countess  of  Blessington — Marguerite  Power 

— H.  F.  Chorley — Louis  Napoleon — Gore  House  ...      95 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  "forties,"  continued— TAx.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall— Thomas 
Moore — Jenny  Lind — Rosa  Bonheur — The  author  of  "John 
Halifax,  Gentleman"...  ...  ...  ...  ...  123 

CHAPTER   IX. 

Lough  the  sculptor — Leigh  Hunt — Robert  Browning — Douglas 

Jerrold— Albert  Smith  ...  ...  ...  ...     142 

CHAPTER  X. 

Mrs.  Somerville  Wood — The  Marchesa  di  Broglio  Solari,  Lady- 
in- Waiting  to  the  Princess  Lamballe  in  the  Reign  of  Terror — 
Bayle  Bernard — Grace  Aguilar — Alexis  ...  ...  ...  163 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Mrs.  Loudon — Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke — Louis  Blanc — Sir  Isambard 
and  Lady  Brunei — William  and  Mary  Howitt,  and  their 
daughter  Anna  Mary — Myra  Drummond  ...  ...  184 

CHAPTER  XII. 

American  friends  and  acquaintances — Charlotte  Cushman — 
Bayard  Taylor — Nathaniel  Hawthorne — Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe 
— Madame  Le  Vert — Grace  Greenwood— Messrs.  Ticknor 
and  Fields — Margaret  Fuller  ...  ...  ...  ...  2o6 


CONTENTS.  xi 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

PAGE 

A   triad  of  single  women — Mary   Russell  Mitford,    Geraldine 

Jewsbury,  and  Frances  Brown  the  blind  poetess    ...  ...     228 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  serious  chapter — Professor  de  Morgan — Rev.  J.  G.  Wood — 
Sir  George  Barker,  K.C.B. —Robert  Chambers— Professor 
Ansted — Professor  Skinner  ...  ...  ...  ...  244 

CHAPTER   XV. 

Robert  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  in  Florence — Mr. 
Seymour  Kirkup — The  sculptors,  Hiram  Powers,  Gibson, 
and  Paul  Akers  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  259 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
R.  H.  Home— J.  A.  Heraud— Westland  Marston       ...  ...     277 


LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Hearsay  and  childish  recollections— Waterloo— Reception  of  the  news 
of  the  battle,  and  anecdotes — The  purser  of  the  Victory — The 
Birmingham  riots— George  the  Third  and  Queen  Charlotte — Ball 
at  Carlton  House. 

PROBABLY  no  observant  person  ever  reaches  even 
middle  age  without  being  conscious  of  those  changes 
of  manners  and  modes  which,  taking  place  apparently 
but  slowly,  do  yet,  in  the  course  of  a  decade  or  two, 
bring  about  silent  social  revolutions.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  the  recollections  of  any  truth-loving,  truth- 
telling  individual  who  has  passed  the  allotted  three- 
score years  and  ten  of  life,  mixing  in  the  society  of 
a  great  metropolis,  ought  to  be  worth  recording. 
Swiftly  the  seasons  pass  by ;  old  men  and  women 
drop  into  their  graves,  taking  with  them  memories  of 
the  past  which  would  be  precious  to  historians  and 
artists  ;  and  the  young  spring  up  to  mount  with 
measured  steps  or  rapid  strides  to  the  world's  high 
places,  or  to  glide  into  the  ranks  of  obscure  workers. 

B 

J 


OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

The  young  at  all  times  have  been  a  little  too  apt 
to  think  the  world  was  made  for  them,  and  that  they, 
"the  heirs  of  all  the  ages,"  have  a  monopoly  of 
wisdom.  It  can  never  do  them  harm  to  listen  to  the 
words  of  one  who  can  recollect  the  scenes  in  which 
their  fathers  played  a  part,  and  the  times  which  have 
made  history. 

It  may  be  said  that  at  upwards  of  seventy  years 
of  age  the  memory  becomes  feeble  and  confused. 
In  my  own  case  only  in  a  very  limited  degree  am 
I  conscious  that  this  is  true ;  but,  because  I  felt 
the  years  were  passing  fast  away,  so  long  back  as 
1865,  I  began  making  memoranda  of  facts,  and 
dates,  and  circumstances  that  appeared  to  me  worth 
noting  down.  So  far  from  presuming  to  inflict  an 
autobiography  on  the  reader,  it  will  be  my  aim  to 
keep  the  obtrusive  personal  pronoun  "  I "  very  con- 
siderably in  the  background  ;  yet  I  know  that  I 
must  speak  of  myself  sometimes  in  connection  with 
scenes  I  shall  try  to  describe,  and  must  even  start 
with  a  childish  recollection,  though  I  do  so  to  give 
the  reader  some  faith  in  my  powers  of  memory. 

I  remember  the  day  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo, 
though,  of  course,  only  from  a  string  of  circumstances 
which  imprinted  it  on  my  mind.  I  was  three  years 
and  nine  days  old  on  that  eventful  Sunday,  and  it 
happened  that  my  father  took  me  to  spend  the  day 
at  the  house  of  his  brother,  an  eminent  medical  man, 
residing  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of  London.  The 


WATERLOO.  3 

occasion  afforded  the  first  recollection  I  have  of  my 
cousins  ;  and  I  distinctly  remember  incidents  of  my 
visit,  which  it  would  be  childish  to  relate,  and  in  the 
summer  twilight  being  lifted  dead-tired  on  to  my 
father's  knee  in  the  stage-coach  which  was  to  take  us 
back  to  town.  In  my  early  years  I  was  frequently 
reminded  that  that  was  the  day  of  the  battle  of 
Waterloo. 

My  mother  was  not  just  then  in  a  state  of  health  to 
go  so  far  from  home ;  but  she  sat  in  the  balcony  of 
our  house  in  C Street  until  past  ten  o'clock,  watch- 
ing for  our  return  ;  and  now  I  must  tell  the  tale  as 
I  heard  her  repeat  it  time  after  time. 

She  declared  that  as  the  light  of  evening  faded  she 
saw  in  the  clouds  images  of  horses  galloping,  mostly 
with  riders,  but  some,  she  said,  riderless.  From 
her  description  she  implied  that  the  phantasmagoria 
lasted  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Of  course, 
when  the  news  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo  reached 
London  the  coincidence  was  thought  extraordinary  ; 
but  so  many  people  smiled  at  what  they  evidently 
supposed  fancy  or  delusion,  that,  in  later  years,  she 
grew  cautious  as  to  whom  she  related  the  incident. 
I  believe,  however,  she  learned  that  one  or  two 
other  persons  had  a  similar  experience  that  evening. 
That  it  was  no  delusion  I  am  certain.  My  mother 
was  well  endowed  with  common  sense,  had  keen 
powers  of  observation,  and  an  excellent  memory, 
and  though,  like  every  one  else,  she  knew  that  our 


4  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

army  was  on  the  Continent,  and  that  a  battle  was 
expected,  I  believe  her  chief  anxiety  that  evening 
was  about  her  little  girl,  then  her  only  child,  who 
probably  had  never  before  been  so  many  hours  from 
under  her  care. 

Not  till  the  following  Tuesday  evening  did  the 
great  news  reach  London.  It  was  the  night  of  the 
whist  club,  to  which  my  parents  belonged  ;  and  I 
think  it  was  in  Berners  Street,  at  the  house  of  Lons- 
dale  the  portrait-painter,  that  the  friendly  meeting 
on  that  occasion  took  place.  In  those  days  half-past 
four  was  a  very  common  dinner-hour,  and  middle- 
class  folks  usually  assembled  to  spend  the  evening 
by  seven  o'clock.  On  that  eventful  2Oth  of  June  the 
whist-players  were  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  their 
games  when  they  were  startled  by  the  newsmen's 
horns,  and  the  cries  of  "  A  great  victory — Buonopanfy 
defeated  !  "  and  "  Courier!  " — then  considered  the  most 
authentic  evening  paper, — etc.  I  have  heard  the 
scene  vividly  described  many  times.  The  cards  were 
thrown  down — the  gentlemen  rushed  into  the  street 
to  procure  the  paper  at  any  price  the  newsmen  asked. 
The  details  were  comparatively  meagre,  yet  they 
were  ample  enough  to  convey  some  idea  of  the 
victory  gained,  and  to  break  up  the  party,  sending 
home  several  medical  men  who  were  present,  and 
who  intended  to  proceed  to  Brussels;  or  make 
arrangements  to  despatch  medical  students  without 
delay.  As  Dr.  Clutterbuck — eminent  for  at  least 


WATERLOO.  5 

another  twenty  years — belonged  to  the  whist  club, 
probably  he  was  one  of  the  assembly. 

The  ladies  also  departed,  for  their  task  was  to  be 
up  early  to  look  out  all  the  old  linen  they  could  find, 
and  set  themselves  to  work  to  make  lint  for  the 
wounded.  Not  only  did  surgeons  from  all  parts  of 
the  country  hasten  to  the  scene  of  slaughter,  but 
dentists  had  their  emissaries  to  extract  the  teeth  of 
the  dead  soldiers;  for  false  teeth  were  then,  in  a 
grim  sense,  real  teeth,  not  made  of  enamel.  I  think 
by  nature,  and  still  more  from  circumstances,  I  was 
a  precocious  child,  and  being  habitually  with  my 
elders,  was  greatly  impressed  by  their  talk.  My 
earliest  recollections  as  a  listener  were  of  the  talk 
about  Waterloo ;  hence,  every  little  incident  in  con- 
nection with  it  which  I  heard  narrated  took  hold  of 
my  memory.  Undoubtedly  the  writers  of  history 
have  not  space  to  give  the  trifling  anecdotes  which 
still  vivify  the  scene.  In  my  early  life  I  knew  well  a 
lady  who  happened  to  be  in  Brussels  that  memorable 
June.  She  was  then  newly  married,  and  only  three 
and  twenty  years  of  age.  So  little  certain  of  victory 
did  the  English  on  the  spot  feel,  that  her  husband 
insisted  on  her  dressing  like  a  Normandy  peasant, 
thinking  such  a  costume  would  be  a  protection. 
Vividly  have  I  heard  her  describe  the  partings  she 
witnessed  at  the  door  of  the  hotel  where  she  was  stay- 
ing, and  the  despair  of  wives  who  were  left  behind — 
wives  soon  to  be  widows. 


6  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

Very  graphically,  too,  did  she  describe  the  next 
day's  events,  when  women  —  many  of  whom,  too 
agitated  to  change  their  attire,  were  still  elegantly 
dressed — made  their  way  somehow  towards  the  field 
of  battle,  returning  in  the  army  waggons,  supporting 
the  heads  of  the  wounded  on  their  knees,  bathing 
their  brows,  and  binding  up  their  wounds,  while  a 
small  steady  rain  poured  down  on  the  faces  begrimed 
by  powder,  which  yet  allowed  their  pallor  to  be  seen. 
It  is  true  there  was  no  organization  of  lady  nurses 
seventy  odd  years  ago,  but  I  rejoice  to  think  that 
English  women  were  capable  of  such  heroism  and 
devotion  years  before  Florence  Nightingale  was  born.* 

From  Wellington  and  Waterloo  to  Nelson  and 
Trafalgar  is  not  a  long  stride,  though  a  retrogressive 
one.  I  make  it,  partly,  because,  though  Nelson  died 
nearly  seven  years  before  I  was  born,  his  deeds  were 
still  spoken  of  as  things  of  yesterday  when  I  was 
more  than  a  little  child  ;  but,  chiefly,  because  Walter 
Burke,  the  purser  of  the  Victory,  was  one  of  the  most 

*  I  once  met  at  a  dinner-party  the  widow  of  an  officer — I  forget  the 
name — who  fought  at  Waterloo,  and  the  lady  narrated  her  experience 
of  the  "  after-battle  "  scene.  For  some  reason  she  had  to  cross  the  field 
of  Waterloo  while  it  was  still  strewn  with  the  dead,  and  for  this  purpose 
she  was  blindfolded  and  placed  on  horseback,  the  steed  being  led  by  a 
trooper.  She  held  a  handkerchief  to  her  nose — steeped,  I  think  she 
said,  with  vinegar — and  not  until  she  had  reached  an  acclivity  nearly  a 
mile  from  the  scene  of  carnage  was  the  bandage  removed  from  her  eyes. 
Then  she  looked  back,  when  the  field  of  Waterloo  appeared  like  a  field 
of  tombstones,  for  the  bodies  were  all  stripped  of  clothing,  and  shone 
white  in  the  sunshine  like  stones.  The  camp-following  ghouls  had 
done  their  work  effectually. 


LORD  NELSON.  7 

intimate  and  beloved  friends  of  my  parents,  and  from 
him  they  heard  many  details,  not  only  of  the  life,  but 
of  the  death  of  the  hero.  Walter  Burke  was  a  warm- 
hearted Irishman,  cousin  to  Edmund  Burke,  and  his 
portrait  is  to  be  seen  at  Greenwich  Hospital  in  the 
picture,  "  The  Death  of  Nelson."  He  was  one  of 
those  who  assisted  to  carry  the  wounded  admiral 
down  to  the  cockpit ;  and  he  supported  him  for  so 
long  a  time  that  his  arm  became  so  thoroughly  numbed 
that  he  did  not  recover  the  use  of  it  for  several 
hours.  At  the  period  of  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  he 
must  have  been  about  sixty-four  years  of  age,  and  is 
represented  in  the  picture,  which  my  mother  saw  in 
the  artist's  studio,  as  a  little  fair  man,  with,  what  used 
to  be  called,  a  "  scratch  "  wig.  He  had  three  sons  in 
the  navy,  and  was  devoted  to  the  service.  I  fancy  he 
had  been  several  years  in  Nelson's  ship,  and  spoke  of 
many  well-known  events  from  personal  knowledge. 
I  might  not,  however,  have  introduced  his  name  into 
these  pages  but  for  one  circumstance. 

The  parentage  of  Horatia  Nelson  Thompson  has 
been  a  subject  of  occasional  discussion  for  more  than 
two  generations,  and  long  ago  I  ranked  myself  among 
the  small  minority  of  those  who  did  not  believe  the 
little  brunette  to  be  either  the  child  of  the  blonde 
Lady  Hamilton  or  of  the  fair-haired  Nelson.  When- 
ever the  subject  was  broached  in  my  mother's  presence, 
she  was  invariably  ready  with  the  same  remark, 
"  Burke  always  said  that,  whoever  the  mother  might 


8  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

be,  it  was  not  Lady  Hamilton."    She  always  spoke  as 
if  she  thought  her  old  friend  had  good  reasons  for  his 
opinion,  and  I  doubt  if  any  but  the  most  absolute 
evidence  would  have  shaken  her  confidence  in  his 
judgment.     Lately  I  have  read  Mr.  Jefferson's  clever 
and  laborious  work  on  Lord  Nelson  and  Lady  Hamil- 
ton, in  which  the  disputed  question  is  fully  treated  ; 
but  as  the  author  admits  that  some  of  the  supposed 
letters  bearing  on  the  affair  were  forgeries,  may  not 
doubt  be  thrown  on  several  others  ?     About  forty  or 
fifty  years  ago  there  was  a  perfect  epidemic  of  forged 
letters,  purporting  to  be  of  celebrated  persons,  got  up 
for  sale,  and  it  is  presumable  that  Nelson's  left-hand 
writing  would  be  particularly  easy  to  imitate.     What 
sane  woman  would  leave  behind  her  a  letter  falsifying 
her  dying  declaration  ?    Mutilated  in  body  as  he  was, 
there  was  no  mental  decay  in  the  "  conquering  hero  " 
of  Trafalgar,  not  fifty  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  his 
death  ;  and  the  sickly  sentimentality  of  that  particular 
letter,  which  is  supposed  to  establish  the  fact  of  Lady 
Hamilton's  relation  to  Nelson's  adopted  daughter,  is 
so  foreign  to  the  whole  character  of  him  whose  best 
beloved  home  was   surely  his  quarter-deck,  that  the 
most  absolute  proof  is  required  to  convince  the  sceptic 
that  the  letter  is  genuine.     It  is  true  that   human 
nature  is  often  a  bundle  of  contradictions,  and  Nelson 
no  doubt  had  his  foibles.     But  he  was  too  strong  a 
personality  not  to  have  great  leading  traits.     He  was 
very  vain,  if  extreme  self-reliance  may  be  so  con- 


LADY  HAMILTON-.  9 

sidered.  He  was  a  fighter  before  all  things,  and 
ambitious  beyond  measure  of  what  the  world  calls 
glory.  Probably  he  had  not  much  nicer  notions  of 
morality  than  most  men  of  his  age ;  but  then  he  had 
to  the  core  those  conventional  notions  of  honour,  which 
drew  a  sharp  line  between  what  was  considered  the 
excusable  and  the  dastardly. 

As  for  Lady  Hamilton's  assertion  that  Horatia  was 
Nelson's  daughter,  we  ought  to  remember  that  she 
had  long  resided  in  countries  where  an  adopted  child 
is  looked  on  in  the  light  of  legitimate  offspring,  and 
shares  legally  the  rights  of  such. 

No  doubt  Nelson  thought  all  was  fair  in  war  ;  and, 
at  a  time  when  so  much  secret-service  money  was 
flying  about  Europe,  one  can  understand  there  might 
be  secret  services  that  were  bought  in  other  modes 
than  by  coin.  Consider  the  hackney-coach  story,  of 
which  so  much  is  made,  and  which  rests  wholly  on  the 
hearsay  statement  of  one  who  confessed  she  had  been 
suborned  to  do  underhand  work  !  Putting  all  this, 
however,  aside,  the  account  was  so  improbable  as  to 
be  well-nigh  physically  impossible  ;  and  why  should 
Lady  Hamilton  have  risked  life  and  reputation  when 
she  had  her  singularly  flexible  mother  to  do  her 
behests  ? 

When  I  think  of  Sir  William  Hamilton's  death — 
his  wife  supporting  him  in  her  arms,  while  his  hand 
was  clasped  by  Nelson's  remaining  one — I  turn  with 
more  and  more  faith  to  the  assertion  of  my  father's 


io  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

friend,  who  must  have  had  opportunities  of  judging 
circumstances  far  beyond  any  the  then  unborn  gene- 
rations could  have.  Certainly  to  many  minds  the 
parentage  of  Nelson's  adopted  daughter  remains  as 
inscrutable  a  mystery  as  the  identity  of  the  Man  in 
the  Iron  Mask,  and  the  authorship  of  the  Junius  letters. 

Whatever  debt  the  country  owed  Lady  Hamilton, 
Nelson  evidently  believed  it  was  a  large  one.  When 
Queen  Charlotte  declined  to  receive  Lady  Hamilton, 
the  wife  of  our  ambassador  at  Court,  she  most  properly 
marked  her  condemnation  of  the  early  immoralities  of 
that  lovely  and  singularly  gifted  woman,  nor  would 
that  condemnation  have  been  cancelled  by  the  country 
responding  to  Nelson's  dying  appeal. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  remember  Mr.  Burke,  for  he 
died,  I  think,  in  1816,  but  from  my  earliest  childhood 
his  name  was  familiar  to  me  as  that  of  a  revered 
friend,  for  ever  associated^with  the  battle  of  Trafalgar. 

"  From  ship  to  ship  the  sighal  ran, 
*  England  expects  that  every  man 
This  day  will  do  his  duty  ! '  " 

Only  half  an  hour  before  the  fatal  shot  was  fired 
Mr.  Burke  attempted  to  come  on  deck,  when  Nelson, 
perceiving  him,  either  repeated  or  pointed  to  the 
memorable  signal  and  exclaimed,  "  Go  down,  go 
down  !  Your  duty  is  below  !  " 

I  believe  my  father  wrote  an  obituary  notice  of 
Walter  Burke  for  the  Morning  Chronicle,  and  com- 
posed a  Latin  epitaph  for  his  tomb. 


THE  BIRMINGHAM  RIOTS.  11 

Perhaps,  while  recounting  my  "  hearsay "  recol- 
lections, I  may  be  allowed  to  recall  my  mother's 
account  of  the  Birmingham  "Church  and  State" 
riots  of  1791.  Though  not  born  in  Birmingham,  she 
resided  there  for  many  years  of  her  childhood,  and 
must  have  been  nearly  eight  years  old  when  the 
events  occurred  which  made  so  strong  an  impression 
on  her  mind.  She  used  to  declare  that  for  three 
days  the  town  was  virtually  in  the  power  of  a  wild 
mob,  who  really  seemed  under  the  delusion  that  they 
themselves  were  warring  against  anarchy.  She  re- 
membered being  taken  by  her  father  to  the  roof  of 
their  dwelling,  from  which  at  one  time  she  beheld 
eleven  buildings  on  fire,  some  of  them  being  Dissenting 
chapels.  The  outbreak  was  provoked  by  a  banquet 
given  by  certain  radicals,  then  called  Jacobins,  in 
honour  of  the  fall  of  the  Bastille.  The  first  pro- 
ceeding of  the  mob,  who  pretended  to  be  defending 
Church  and  State,  was  to  break  the  windows  of  the 
hotel  where  the  dinner  was  taking  place,  and  then 
they  set  fire  to  a  new  meeting-house  of  the  Dis- 
senters. As  is  well  known,  Dr.  Priestley  was  a  great 
object  of  their  wrath,  and  his  residence  was  speedily 
sacked  and  destroyed.  Also,  they  especially  attacked 
the  Quakers,  of  whom  there  were  many  prosperous 
ones  in  Birmingham,  and  the  women  among  the 
rioters  were  seen  decked  in  Mrs.  Priestley's  handsome 
dresses,  and  the  delicate  grey  fabrics  of  the  Quaker- 
esses. It  should  be  added  that:  Mrs.  Priestley  was 


12  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

a  most  benevolent  woman,  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the 
sick  poor,  accompanied  by  a  servant  who  carried  a 
basket  of  eatables,  and  often  on  winter  evenings  the 
"  click  of  her  pattens  "  was  recognized  when  on  these 
errands  of  mercy. 

Of  course,  amid  such  scenes  of  violence  there  were 
many  narrow  escapes  from  disaster.  My  grand- 
father, being  well  known  for  a  staunch  Churchman 
and  loyal  subject,  was  personally  safe,  but  his  wife, 
nee  Berry,  had  many  relatives  who  were  Dissenters, 
and  great  anxiety  was  felt  on  their  account.  My 
mother  used  to  tell  how  the  courage  and  tact  of  one 
of  them  saved  her  house  and  perhaps  the  life  of  her 
husband.  I  rather  think  he  was  in  hiding,  at  any 
rate  he  was  absent  from  home ;  and  when  the  mob 
demanded  entrance  to  their  dwelling  his  wife  ad- 
mitted them  freely,  feigned  sympathy  with  their 
opinions,  and  entertained  a  number  of  them  hospi- 
tably, not  forgetting  a  copious  supply  of  strong  ale, 
so  that  the  ruffians  who  came  to  pillage  remained  to 
carouse,  departing  in  a  state  of  drunken  excitement, 
which  took  the  turn  of  applauding  their  hostess  and 
abstaining  from  the  destruction  they  had  meditated. 

I  wonder  if  it  is  worth  while  to  note  among  "  hear- 
say recollections,"  the  account  my  mother  gave  of  the 
influence  of  Mrs.  Siddons's  acting  on  herself  when 
a  girl  of  fifteen.  It  occasioned  the  only  instance 
of  somnambulism  which  was  ever  known  to  have 
occurred  to  her.  She  had  been  taken  to  see  the  great 


JOHN  KEMBLE  AND  MRS.  SID  DONS.  13 

actress  as  "  Lady  Macbeth,"  and,  on  the  testimony  of 
a  sister  who  occupied  the  same  room,  it  was  declared 
that,  though  fast  asleep,  she  rose  from  her  bed  and 
went  through  all  the  action  of  the  sleep-walking 
scene.  In  later  years  my  mother  was  so  great  an 
admirer  of  John  Kemble  and  Mrs.  Siddons,  that  I 
think  she  sometimes  failed  in  doing  justice  to  their 
successors.  She  saw  the  great  actors  over  and  over 
again  in  the  same  characters,  with  ever-renewed 
pleasure,  and  I  have  heard  her  say  that,  so  unvaried 
was  their  delineation,  they  appeared  to  tread  on 
the  very  same  boards  of  the  stage  each  time.  I 
was  reminded  of  this  in  reading  an  account  of  a 
lecture  by  Mr.  Irving  on  dramatic  affairs,  in  which 
he  said  something  to  the  effect  that  the  actor  must 
in  the  first  instance  surrender  himself  to  the  emotion 
of  his  part,  then  conquer  it,  though  remembering 
so  as  to  reproduce  the  outward  expression  of  that 
emotion. 

Another  of  the  incidents  which  impressed  my 
mother's  mind  as  a  child,  but  belonging  to  a  still 
earlier  period,  was  rather  a  ghastly  one.  I  have 
often  heard  her  speak  of  a  street  "  peep-show,"  repre- 
senting the  execution  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth  and 
Marie  Antoinette.  Nothing  so  outrageous  could,  I 
think,  be  permitted  nowadays.  The  show,  I  believe, 
was  called  "  Guillotining  of  the  King  and  Queen  of 
France."  I  suppose  no  events  ever  took  such  hold 
of  the  universal  English  mind — and,  indeed,  of  all 


14  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE, 

Christendom — as  did  the  horrors  of  the  first  French 
Revolution. 

Among  my  mother's  lively  and  pleasanter  recol- 
lections were  some  of  a  royal  family  that  now  may 
be  considered  historical.  I  mean  George  the  Third, 
his  queen,  and  their  children.  Before  the  sad  cir- 
cumstances which  necessitated  a  Regency,  they  were 
often  to  be  seen  at  Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  enjoying  the  acting  of  Mrs.  Siddons  and 
John  Kemble,  or  perhaps  lesser  luminaries,  as  much 
as  the  loyal  audience,  who  were  sure  to  evince  their 
love  and  respect  In  those  days  etiquette  was  very 
bristling,  and  even  the  ladies-in-waiting  remained 
standing  behind  the  royal  party  all  the  evening.  I 
have  heard  my  mother  describe,  in  a  somewhat 
too  minute  manner,  the  incessant  snuff-taking  of 
Queen  Charlotte ;  but  it  was  a  snuff-taking  age,  and 
manners  were  in  some  respects  coarser  than  they  are 
at  present.  Far  pleasanter  was  it  to  hear  her  ex- 
patiate on  the  beauty  of  the  princesses  and  the 
evident  good-nature  of  the  king.  It  must  be  remem- 
bered that  at  that  period  and  long  afterwards  it  was 
only  at  the  theatres  named  that  what  was  considered 
the  legitimate  drama  could  be  acted,  the  performers 
calling  themselves  "  His  Majesty's  servants."  The 
very  few  other  theatres  named  "  minor  "  were  nearly 
ignored  by  the  upper  classes. 

I  have  also  often  heard  my  mother  describe  a  ball 
at  Carlton  House,  of  which,  by  the  favour,  I  believe, 


THE  PRINCESS  CHARLOTTE.  15 

of  an  intimate  old  friend  then  in  the  household  of  the 
Prince  Regent,  she  was  permitted  to  be  a  witness. 
Some  unseen  gallery  commanded  a  view  of  the 
spectacle,  and  to  this  she  was  admitted.  It  was,  I 
believe,  near  the  buffet,  whence  refreshments  were 
issued,  and  she  spoke  of  the  exquisite  porcelain 
cup  in  which  she  was  served  with  tea,  and  the  gold 
teaspoon  which  accompanied  it.  This  ball  took 
place  before  the  Princess  Charlotte  was  betrothed 
to  Prince  Leopold,  and  just  when  there  was  talk 
of  a  marriage  for  her  that  was  most  distasteful  to 
her.  She  looked  grave,  to  a  degree  unnatural  in  a 
girl  in  her  teens,  dancing  chiefly,  if  not  wholly,  with 
her  uncles.  The  dress  of  those  days  must  have  been 
about  as  hideous  as  anything  which  the  despot  fashion 
ever  ordained — waists  ascending  to  the  shoulder- 
blades.  Recalling  this  ball  to  an  old  friend  the  other 
day,  she  reminded  me  that  my  mother  used  to  de- 
scribe the  dress-coat  of  one  of  the  uncles,  who  danced 
with  the  princess,  as  being  of  pink  satin.  But  the  most 
noticeable  thing  was  the  set  of  magnificent  emeralds — 
ill-omened  gems — which  the  Princess  Charlotte  wore. 

The  venerable  queen  was  seated  on  a  throne-like 
chair  on  a  dais.  She^  looked  old  and  careworn,  my 
mother  said,  but  "every  inch;  a  queen;"  and  the 
Prince  Regent  was  observed  to  pay  the  most  marked 
attention  to  her. 

The  rest  of  my  hearsay  and  childish  recollections 
I  must  reserve  for  another  chapter. 


16  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Hearsay  and  childish  recollections — French  immigrants  in  London — 
Paris  in  1819— Death  of  George  the  Third. 

SURELY  the  days  of  the  Regency  and  the  early 
years  of  George  the  Fourth's  reign — seen  with  the 
"  enchantment "  which  "  distance  lends  " — form  a  very 
suggestive  period  for  some  great  novelist  to  treat. 
In  "  Vanity  Fair "  Thackeray  broke  the  ground,  but 
I  think  only  superficially.  He  was  a  little  too  near 
the  period,  and  I  own  that  to  me  this  great  work  is 
marred  by  the  unchivalrous  act  of  choosing  a  strug- 
gling, penniless  girl,  for  the  "  villain  "  of  his  story. 
There  are  bad  women  enough  in  the  world,  and  it  is 
fit  their  errors  and  crimes  should  be  shown  up  for  the 
edification  of  their  sex ;  but  probably  no  class,  as 
a  class,  exemplifies  nobler  qualities  than  poor  but 
educated  gentlewomen,  who  have  in  one  way  or 
another  to  maintain  themselves,  and  often  indeed  to 
be  the  mainstay  of  others.  For  years  after  the 
publication  of  "  Vanity  Fair  "  it  was  enough  for  a 
struggling  woman  to  show  shrewdness  and  a  little 
more  than  ordinary  prudence  for  her  to  be  sneered 


LONDON  SOCIETY  EIGHTY   YEARS  AGO.  17 

at  as  a  Becky  Sharpe.  It  may  be  that  "  Esmond " 
atones  for  the  flaw  in  "  Vanity  Fair,"  but  it  needed 
as  fine  a  work  to  do  so. 

This  is  a  digression,  I  confess.  I  am  endeavouring 
to  depict  the  London  life  of  the  cultivated  middle 
classes  as  I  remember  it  to  have  been  from  my  early 
childhood.  It  would  indeed  be  gratifying  if  I  could 
think  that  my  recollections  could  afford  hints  for 
character-drawing  to  any  future  novelist.  Certainly 
I  think  there  was  more  individuality  of  character 
among  the  men  than  there  is  now — or,  perhaps,  it 
would  be  more  correct  to  say  eccentricity.  As  a 
rule,  men  were  absolutely  lords  and  masters,  and 
little  girls  had  to  submit  to  the  tyranny  of  brothers 
—younger  brothers  even — because  they  were  boys. 
Of  course  there  were  radiant  exceptions,  and  men 
and  boys  who  were  chivalrous  by  nature  ;  but,  gene- 
rally speaking,  every  male  creature  set  up  a  law  for 
himself,  to  which  those  who  were  meek  must  submit, 
and  which  only  the  strong  could  resist.  Over  what 
red-hot  ploughshares  have  women  walked  before 
attaining  the  position  they  now  so  happily  hold ! 

In  speaking  of  middle-class  society,  as  it  existed  in 
London  seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  one  romantic 
element  must  not  be  forgotten,  namely,  the  sprinkling 
of  French  refugees  which  moved  in  it.  My  parents  were 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  Gautherot  family,  the 
members  of  which  I  knew  exceedingly  well.  Madame 
Gautherot,  the  first  wife  of  M.  Gautherot,  had  been 

C 


i8  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

sub-governess  in  the  Orleans  family  under  Madame 
de  Genlis  ;  and  the  Gautherots,  I  understood,  fled  to 
England  in  the  days  of  the  Terror.  He,  I  believe, 
had  held  some  musical  appointment  about  the  French 
Court.  He  had,  however,  long  been  married  to  his 
English  wife  in  the  days  I  am  describing  ;  and  what 
a  blessing  was  that  active,  sensible,  practical  manager 
in  a  family  of  brain-workers  !  She  was  always  called 
"  Mrs.,"  not  "  Madame,"  and  as  the  generality  of 
people  gave  the  th  in  Gautherot  the  English  sound, 
her  name  did  not  seem  very  French.  She  was  not, 
I  fancy,  much  older  than  the  two  elder  daughters,  who 
were,  respectively,  professors  of  the  harp  and  piano, 
and  had  their  annual  concert,  usually  at  the  house  of 
some  lady  of  rank.  The  harp-player  gave  lessons  to 
the  Princess  Charlotte  even  after  her  marriage,  I  sup- 
pose, for  I  remember  hearing  anecdotes  of  the  royal 
pair  at  Claremont.  The  Mademoiselles  Gautherot 
were  thorough,  high-bred  gentlewomen,  and  liked  the 
observance  of  proper  etiquette.  Though  nearly  my 
mother's  own  age,  they  sometimes  asked  her  to  be 
their  chaperon,  as  was  the  case  when  they  witnessed 
the  dkbut  of  Madame  Vestris  from  the  pit  of  Her 
Majesty's  Theatre  in  1815.  The  debutante  was  said 
to  be  only  sixteen,  but  was  in  reality  eighteen,  her 
age  having  been  ascertained  many  years  later  in  order 
to  decide  a  bet  on  the  subject. 

M.  Gautherot  dwells  in  my  mind  as  quite  a  typical 
Frenchman  of  the  period.     His  daughters — there  was 


THE  FRENCH  EMIGRES.  19 

a  younger  one  whom  I  only  vaguely  recollect — spoke 
English  perfectly,  but  he,  though  so  long  a  resident  in 
London,  scarcely  understood  a  word  of  the  language 
that  must  have  always  been  buzzing  about  him.  He, 
too,  was  a  professor  of  music.  I  best  remember  his 
violoncello,  but  rather  think  he  taught  several  in- 
struments. The  family  occupied  a  good  house  in 
Nassau  Street,  one  of  those  old-fashioned  London 
houses  that  are  more  roomy  than  they  look.  The 
drawing-room,  with  its  lounges  and  easy- chairs  of 
white  and  gold,  was  a  very  elegant  apartment ;  its 
appointments  being  years  in  advance  of  the  furniture 
usually  seen  in  similar  dwellings. 

I  think  the  Gautherots  must  have  been  most 
kindly  people,  though  the  father  was  never  reconciled 
to  his  exile.  On  one  occasion  the  harpist  sent  her 
harp  to  our  house,  adding  a  charm  to  a  little 
evening  party  by  her  playing.  I  dare  say  she  had 
often  done  so  before,  but  I  remember  the  special 
occasion  because  I — at  six  or  seven  years  old — was 
naughty  enough  to  steal  into  the  drawing-room  the 
next  morning  before  the  harp  was  taken  away  that  I 
might  try  to  play  on  it. 

Only  as  a  scene  by  daylight  do  I  recollect  the 
Nassau  Street  house,  when  I  accompanied  my  mother 
in  a  morning  visit.  In  those  days  it  was  the  custom 
to  offer  morning  visitors  cake  and  wine  ;  but,  instead, 
our  French  friends  gave  us  delicious  milled  chocolate 
— Spanish  chocolate,  I  think  it  was  called — having  a 


20  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

white  froth  at  the  top  of  the  tiny  china  cup  in  which 
it  was  served.  I  have  never  since  tasted  anything 
comparable  with  it.  On  one  afternoon  I  recollect 
that  M.  Gautherot  was  at  home  ;  it  must  have  been 
winter-time,  for  daylight  was  fading.  There  was 
talk  of  my  being  about  to  commence  music,  when  the 
old  man  beckoned  me  to  him,  and,  stretching  forth 
his  long,  thin,  brownish  fingers,  volunteered  to  teach 
me  the  lines  and  spaces  of  the  treble  clef  by  them.  I 
learnt  my  lesson  of  /,  a,  c,  e,  etc.,  by  the  fingers,  and 
spaces  between  them  in  a  few  moments,  though  one 
of  the  daughters  was  interpreter  on  the  occasion. 

My  parents  used  to  spend  pleasant  evenings  some- 
times in  Nassau  Street,  where  they  often  met  interest- 
ing people — emigrants,  always  charged  with  anecdotes 
of  poor  Marie  Antoinette  and  her  husband,  not  one 
of  them,  probably,  believing  that  the  Dauphin  could 
have  lived  long.  From  what  I  have  heard,  and  what 
I  remember,  the  presence  of  the  French  refugees  in 
London  must  have  had  a  very  beneficial  influence  in 
society.  They  were  almost  always  well  educated, 
with  much  more  of  all-round  culture  than  the  English 
of  that  period  often  attained  ;  and  they  were  tem- 
perate in  an  age  when  nearly  all  men  were  more  or 
less  wine-bibbers.  They  must  have  been  astonish- 
ingly economical  and  thrifty  to  have  lived  as  they 
did.  As  all  the  world  knows,  there  were  members  of 
the  old  noblesse,  all  their  previous  lives  accustomed 
to  ease  and  luxury,  who  turned  their  acquirements  to 


THE  FRENCH  EMIGRES.  21 

practical  account ;  and,  while  they  taught  their  own 
language,  often  painting  and  music  as  well,  and  even 
dancing,  in  our  middle-class  families,  they  insensibly 
left  a  leaven  of  refinement  behind  them  which  was 
not  quite  unneeded.  Of  course  every  rude  school- 
boy believed  that  one  Englishman  was  a  match  for 
three  Frenchmen ;  and  I  fear  the  emigrants  must 
sometimes  have  felt  themselves  despised.  But  they 
lived  down  bitterness,  and  .were  always  grateful  to 
the  English  friends  who  treated  them  with  considera- 
tion. Many  returned  to  France  before  Waterloo,  but 
also  many,  like  the  Gautherots,  had  formed  English 
ties,  and  must  have  left  descendants  who  are  now 
thoroughly  loyal  British  subjects.  When  we  re- 
member how  many  of  our  eminent  people  have 
claimed  descent  from  the  old  Huguenot  stock,  we 
cannot  but  feel  how  near  of  kin  we  are  to  the  great 
French  nation. 

Old  fashion-prints  will  show  how  hideous  was  the 
dress  in  England  when  this  century  was  still  in  its 
teens.  The  waists  were  so  short  that  the  buttons  on 
men's  coats  and  the  termination  of  a  woman's  bodice 
were  literally  between  the  shoulder-blades.  Frock- 
coats  were  unknown,  and  the  universal  swallow-tails 
were  often  of  bright  blue  with  brass  buttons. 
Women's  skirts  were  absurdly  scanty  and  short — too 
tight,  I  fancy,  for  a  pocket  to  be  conveniently  used  ; 
hence,  I  suppose,  the  introduction  of  the  reticule 
— often  a  very  handsome  little  bag,  carried  on  the 


22  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

arm,  or  suspended  on  the  corner  of  the  chair  in 
use.  I  think  the  uneasy  chairs  of  those  days  always 
had  corners.  But  the  bad  taste  of  the  dress  was  a 
small  affair  compared  to  the  fact  that  few  women 
wore  sufficiently  warm  winter  clothing.  Multitudes 
of  people  never  wore  any  wool  near  the  skin  ;  and 
even  when  snow  was  on  the  ground  little  girls 
shivered  in  low  frocks  and  short  sleeves.  I  remember 
my  little  black  frock  made  for  mourning  for  the 
Princess  Charlotte,  with  its  edging  of  white  round 
the  short  sleeves  ;  and  I  know,  in  the  winter,  I  was 
always  sorry  when  the  after-dinner  time  came  that 
my  pinafore  must  be  removed,  because,  thin  as  it  was, 
it  afforded  some  little  warmth.  I  was  a  delicate 
child,  kept  very  much  in  warm  rooms,  and  accus- 
tomed to  a  bedroom  fire  ;  but  every  tender  care  must, 
I  think,  have  been  somewhat  neutralized  by  the 
unseasonable  dress. 

It  was  d  propos  of  a  later  fashion,  when  boys  were 
the  victims,  that  I  heard  an  eminent  medical  man 
declare  that  thousands  of  children  were  killed  every 
year  in  the  attempt  to  make  them  little  Highlanders. 
Of  course,  when  ladies'  dresses  scarcely  reached  to 
their  ankles,  great  attention  was  paid  to  their 
chaussure;  but  thick  shoes  and  warm  stockings  would 
have  been  terribly  "  hoofish  ;  "  so  only  silk  stockings, 
or  very  fine  cotton,  with  thin-soled  and  sandal-tied 
shoes,  were  worn,  often  even  in  the  streets. 

The  long  war  with  France  and  the  general  difri- 


OLD  FASHIONS  AND  FURNITURE.  23 

culty  of  intercourse  with  the  Continent  had  thrown 
England  very  much  on  her  own  resources  in  matters 
of  taste ;  and  it  must  be  owned  she  had  not  shone 
under  the  ordeal.  I  remember  two  or  three  very 
old  ladies  who  preserved  something  of  the  old -school 
style,  and  still  wore  powder,  and  I  think  never 
adopted  the  very  short  waist ;  but  dress  with  the 
younger  generation  was  hideous.  The  usual  furni- 
ture was  also  formal  and  tasteless.  It  may  be 
admitted  that  we  have  gone  to  the  other  extreme, 
and  overcrowd  our  rooms  with  knickknacks.  But 
in  my  childhood  a  French  or  Swiss  clock  on  the 
chimney-piece — which  most  probably  did  not  go, 
since  it  was  said  no  English  clockmaker  could  repair 
a  foreign  timepiece — was  the  chief  ornament  of  a 
drawing-room,  neighboured,  however,  by  a  pair  of 
lustres  to  hold  candles  and  a  few  oddments  of  china. 
A  workbox  and  a  writing-desk  on  some  side-table 
might  be  seen,  and  a  looking-glass  and  a  few  pictures, 
probably.  But,  when  the  room  was  arranged,  the 
straight-back  chairs  were  placed  formally  against  the 
walls.  A  sofa  there  would  most  likely  be,  with  a 
sofa-table  before  it — that  is,  a  table  with  flaps,  which, 
when  extended,  made  the  table  the  length  of  the 
sofa — but  seldom  would  an  easy-chair  be  seen.  In 
the  dining-room  of  middle-class  families  horse-hair 
chairs,  with  two  armchairs  among  them,  were  very 
common.  But  a  thick  Turkey  carpet  would  comfort 
the  feet,  and  the  dining-table  would  shine  like  a 


24  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

mirror  ;  for  those  were  the  days  when  the  cloth  was 
removed  for  dessert,  and  the  decanters  of  wine 
glided  round  in  baized  stands  so  as  not  to  scratch 
the  mahogany. 

I  think  there  was  a  very  genuine  love  of  flowers 
in  those  times,  though  they  were  much  less  lavishly 
used  than  now,  and  were  less  varied,  and  less  in 
the  nature  of  exotics.  London  balconies  were  often 
crowded  with  hardy  plants,  and  boxes  of  mignonette 
were  much  in  vogue.  In  fact,  when  furniture  for 
the  most  part  was  square  and  ugly,  wall-papers 
hideous,  and  good  pictures  not  abundant,  flowers 
were  often  the  only  refining  influence  of  the  house. 
And,  alas  !  there  was  one  form  of  ugliness  pervading 
all  classes,  of  which  the  present  generation  can  with 
difficulty  form  an  idea. 

If  the  ill-informed  and  dangerous  fanatics  who 
preach  against  vaccination  could  only  behold  the 
countenances,  marred  almost  out  of  resemblance  to 
the  human  face  divine,  which  were  common  every- 
where seventy  years  ago,  surely  -they  would  hide 
their  own  faces  in  shame.  I  really  think  that,  of  the 
men  and  women  born  before  1780,  fully  half  were 
more  or  less  marked  by  the  ravages  of  small-pox. 
From  that  date  inoculation  became  more  general  ; 
but  sometimes  the  disease  was  malignant  even  after 
inoculation,  and,  if  it  did  not  kill,  left  disfiguring 
traces  behind.  Besides,  it  served  to  propagate  the 
disease.  I  can  call  to  mind  several  elderly  people, 


SMALL-POX.  2$ 

so  seamed  and  scarred,  that  they  almost  frightened 
me  when  a  child.  Certainly  for  sixty  years  I  have 
seen  nothing  comparable  to  the  cicatrized  faces  so 
common  in  my  childhood.  Ladies,  so  afflicted, 
habitually  wore  the  thickest  of  veils  out  of  doors, 
and  probably  chose  the  darkest  corners  when  in 
society. 

But,  if  a  dangerous  and  loathsome  illness,  followed 
by  lifelong  disfigurement,  was  a  calamity,  what  shall 
we  say  to  the  total  blindness  which,  in  disastrous 
cases,  was  sometimes  the  result  ? 

It  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  horrors, 
which  Jenner's  discovery  so  greatly  lightened,  if  it 
did  not  wholly  banish.  Readers  of  eighteenth- 
century  fiction  must  have  noticed  how  often  an 
attack  of  small-pox  is  made  the  Deus  ex  machina  to 
curb  vanity,  test  constancy,  or  break  ofif  a  marriage 
— a  sure  sign  of  its  deadly  power.  In  fact,  a  girl 
who  had  gone  through  an  attack  without  retaining 
its  fatal  signs  was  considered  "  beautiful  for  ever,"  and 
probably,  in  many  cases,  gave  herself  airs  accordingly. 

It  was  said  that  the  lady  to  whom  the  first  Duke 
of  Wellington  was  engaged  before  he  went  to  India 
had  her  beauty  marred  by  the  fatal  disease  in  his 
absence  ;  that,  like  a  true  woman,  she,  on  her  re- 
covery, wrote  to  release  him  from  his  engagement ; 
but  that  he,  like  a  true  and  chivalrous  knight,  refused 
to  be  released,  and  the  lady  became  his  duchess  and 
the  mother  of  his  sons. 


26  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

There  is  one  more  hearsay  reminiscence  which 
may  be  worth  giving  before  I  close  this  chapter  of 
recollections  of  my  very  early  childhood.  Though, 
when  the  Continent  was  opened  to  tourists  after  the 
final  overthrow  of  Napoleon,  only  a  very  limited 
number  of  English  people  had  visited  Paris  up  to 
the  period  of  1819,  yet,  in  the  summer  of  that  year, 
my  parents  spent  nearly  a  fortnight  there  under 
peculiar  circumstances.  A  client  of  my  father's,  who 
owed  him  between  three  and  four  thousand  pounds 
— a  large  portion  of  it  either  advanced  in  the  pro- 
secution of  a  lawsuit,  or  to  be  considered  as  liabilities 
incurred  from  having  become  a  security — had  fled  to 
France,  when  the  Continent  seemed  secure,  setting 
his  creditors  at  defiance.  He  had  a  rich  wife,  with  a 
fortune  settled  on  herself,  and  his  eldest  son  had 
married  an  heiress.  Thus  the  family  were  able  to 
live  luxuriously  abroad.  Subsequently  one  of  the 
daughters  married  into  the  Thellusson  family.  Nego- 
tiations had  always  been  going  on  with  the  hope  of 
some  business  settlement,  and,  I  fancy,  comparatively 
small  sums  had  been  remitted  to  England.  In  the 

summer  of   1819  Mr.  G proposed  to  meet  my 

father  at  Dover  on  a  certain  day  to  have  a  confer- 
ence on  his  affairs ;  and,  either  for  a  summer  jaunt, 
or  more  likely  because  he  wished  for  my  mother's 
presence  at  the  meeting,  he  took  her  with  him. 
When  they  reached  Dover  they  found,  instead  of  the 
personage  expected,  a  letter,  enclosing  a  twenty- 


VISIT  TO  PARIS.  27 

pound  note  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  journey,  and 
entreating  my  father  to  come  on  to  Paris  and  be  his 
guest ;  and  on  they  both  went. 

Of  course  my  mother  had  not  made  any  toilet 
preparations  commensurate  with  such  a  journey  and 
such  a  visit ;  yet,  under  the  circumstances,  I  do  not 
think  she  winced  much  at  the  ordeal  before  her. 
But  after  the  passage  across  the  silver  streak  and 
the  tedious  diligence  journey,  which  she  was  wont 
piteously  to  describe,  she  reached  Paris,  and  was 
indeed  astonished  at  the  mode  which  prevailed. 
French  fashions  were  not  then  followed  as  swiftly  as 
they  now  are.  English  women  were  still  wearing 
short  waists,  and  petticoats  reaching  only  to  the 
ankles,  while  Parisians  had  skirts  nearly  touching 
the  ground,  and  waists  almost  where  they  ought 
to  be.  Of  course  my  mother  felt  herself  an  object ; 

but  the  ladies  of  the  G- family  set  about  mending 

matters  as  well  as  they  could.  At  their  sugges- 
tion, and  with  the  needful  help  to  unpick  and  alter, 
skirts  were  dropped  to  the  shoes,  and  the  waist 
lengthened  by  sashes  several  inches  broad.  I  still 
remember  those  beautiful  ribbons,  the  most  beautiful 
I  had  ever  then  seen.  There  were  several  of  these 
sashes,  which  no  doubt  gave  sufficient  variety  of 
costume  to  my  mother's  white  dresses. 

To  such  guests  such  hosts  would  naturally  be  very 
affable,  and  I  have  heard  my  mother  speak  feelingly 
of  the  evident  pain  and  humiliation  the  grown-up 


28  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

daughters  felt  at  their  father's  position.  Of  course 
the  sight-seeing  that  could  be  experienced  in  ten 
or  twelve  days  was  gone  through,  and  I  have  heard 
my  mother  expatiate  on  the  narrow  dirty  streets, 
without  side  pavement,  with  the  feeble  light  of  the 
oil  lamps,  suspended  in  the  middle — and  which 
enabled  her  to  realize  what  was  meant  by  the 
revolutionary  cry  of  a  la  lanterne.  In  one  of  the 
churches — I  think  it  was  Notre  Dame — she  saw 
the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme,  and  described  her  as 
looking  like  a  woman  who  had  never  smiled. 
Alas !  for  the  daughter  of  Marie  Antoinette  and 
Louis  Seize!  But  chiefly  do  I  record  this  visit 
of  my  parents  to  Paris  because  they  spoke  of  the 
Buonapartist  feeling  which  so  evidently  prevailed, 
especially  among  the  humbler  classes.  Of  course  the 
English  were  well  hated  ;  and  yet  the  driver  of  the 
diligence,  on  the  return  journey  to  England,  talked 
freely  to  my  father  of  the  prevailing  sentiment,  and 
took  from  his  pocket  a  fan  which,  when  closed, 
showed  a  portrait  of  Louis  Dix-huit,  but  when  opened 
represented  Napoleon  and  the  little  king  of  Rome. 

Of  course  my  father  and  mother  brought  home 
a  few  mementos  of  their  visit  to  Paris,  one  of 
which,  a  reticule,  chiefly  composed  of  minute 
garnets,  I  still  possess.  And  I  remember  an 
ingenious  toy,  unrivalled  in  England  for  many  years, 
and  a  receptacle  for  bonbons,  covered  with  bright  blue 
satin,  of  the  tint  in  Paris  called  Marie  Louise,  but 


DEATH  OF  GEORGE  111.  29 

which  in  England  had  long  been  known  as  Waterloo 
blue.  My  father  might  have  brought  home  a  trifle 
of  money,  but  I  fear  he  was  chiefly  laden  with 
promises  never  to  be  fulfilled. 

A  few  months  later — one  cold  January  evening — 
I  was  bidden  to  listen  to  the  tolling  of  the  great  bell 
of  St.  Paul's,  for  it  announced  that  "the  poor  old 
king"  was  dead.  I  think  that,  as  yet,  George  the 
Third  as  man  and  king  is  scarcely  appreciated. 
Those  who  look  deepest  into  his  reign  will,  I  am 
persuaded,  feel  that  in  a  number  of  instances  he 
played  well  a  very  difficult  part.  I  think  Carlyle's 
sneer  about  Robert  Burns  being  set  to  gauge  ale- 
barrels  while  George  the  Third  had  to  steer  through  a 
French  revolution,  an  American  war,  and  Manchester 
riots,  unworthy  of  that  great  writer.  Had  George 
the  Third  been  born  a  peasant  and  set  to  gauge  ale- 
barrels,  we  may  be  very  sure  he  would  have  done  his 
work  dutifully ;  but  Robert  Burns  could  no  more 
have  acted  well  a  kingly  part  than  his  Sovereign 
could  have  written  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night." 

I  remember  with  what  deep  affection  "  the  poor  old 
king,"  as  in  his  affliction  he  was  commonly  called, 
was  usually  spoken  of  by  those  who  remembered  his 
earlier  years ;  and  the  description  of  him  in  his  last 
days,  current  at  the  time  of  his  death,  made  a  life- 
long impression  on  my  childish  imagination.  A 
blind  old  man  with  a  white  beard,  that  reached  to 
his  waist,  beguiling  the  dreariness  of  a  blue-walled, 


30  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

padded  chamber,  by  playing  Handel's  music  on  a 
pianoforte — or  harpsichord,  I  forget  which — until  the 
keys  were  hollowed  by  his  fingers. 

Thus  began  the  memorable  year  1820.  It  closed 
for  me  with  the  death  of  my  dear  father  in  December 
— a  death  that,  after  a  few  days'  illness,  altered  all 
the  prospects  of  his  family,  completely  dwarfed  the 
plans  that  had  been  formed  for  my  education  and 
advancement,  and  filled  my  mind  prematurely  with 
worldly  cares  and  anxieties. 

I  believe  I  shall  have  few  more  hearsay  recollec- 
tions to  narrate,  but  rather  my  own  personal 
recollections  of  people  and  events  that  in  many 
instances  can  now  be  remembered  by  only  a  few 
survivors. 


SCHOOL  DAYS.  31 


CHAPTER  III. 

Coronation  of  George  the  Fourth — And  recollections  of  his  reign. 

MY  father — like  Mrs.  Charles  Kemble,  as  her  daughter 
records — "  hated  a  fool,"  and  I  should  imagine,  from 
various  circumstances,  had  no  horror  of  a  really 
learned  lady.  At  any  rate,  he  had  planned  for  my 
education  that  it  should  have  the  solid  foundation  of 
Latin  and  Greek.  But  his  death,  when  I  was  eight 
and  a  half  years  old,  resulted  in  long  years  of 
straitened  circumstances  ;  and  the  teaching  at  a  good 
day  school  was  all  my  mother  could  afford  me. 
Thus,  with  a  very  brief  exception,  to  be  measured  by 
weeks  rather  than  months,  when  I  was  placed  with 
an  excellent  teacher,  I  was,  out  of  school  hours, 
nearly  always  in  the  society  of  my  elders.  I 
mention  this,  and  one  or  two  other  personal  cir- 
cumstances, to  account  for  my  taking  an  interest 
in  events  which  surely  must  have  been  little  heeded 
by  the  generality  of  children.  I  had  a  younger 
brother — a  high-spirited  and  thoroughly  boyish  boy, 
of  whom  by-and-by  I  shall  have  to  speak  in  con- 
nection with  an  historical  event;  but,  whatever  his 


32  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

merits,  he  was  little  of  a  companion  to  his  quiet, 
book-loving  sister ;  so  that  in  many  respects  I  was 
lifted  prematurely  out  of  childish  thoughts  and 
childish  interests. 

But  my  mother  had  been  my  father's  second 
wife  ;  and  I  had  two  half-brothers,  the  elder  of  whom 
died  in  India,  after  distinguishing  himself  in  various 
ways.  He  was  the  first  to  introduce  gas  to  the 
streets  of  Calcutta.  The  younger,  thirteen  years 
older  than  I,  had  studied  for  the  law ;  but  the  dis- 
astrous loss  my  father  had  experienced  through 

Mr.  G had  delayed  the  articling  of  my  brother 

H.,  so  that,  though  probably  as  well  instructed  as 
if  the  necessary  formalities  had  been  gone  through, 
he  was  not  able  at  once  to  take  up  my  father's  con- 
nection. He  was,  however,  very  promptly  articled 
to  a  solicitor,  with  an  understanding  that  he  was  to 
benefit  by  the  business  he  could  retain.  This  dear 
brother  seemed  henceforth  half  father  as  well  as 
brother  to  me.  I  had  always  been  his  pet  and  play- 
thing ;  and  the  tie  of  affection  between  us  was  always 
most  sweet.  Burthened  as  he  was  with  the  responsi- 
bility of  doing  all  that  he  possibly  could  for  my  mother 
and  her  children,  I  think  there  is  little  wonder  that, 
even  after  becoming  an  admitted  solicitor,  he  was  not 
a  very  successful  one  from  a  monetary  point  of  view. 
He  had  a  fine  taste  for  literature,  music,  and  art,  but 
was  not  exactly  of  the  stuff  of  which  famous  lawyers 
are  made.  There  was  too  much  that  was  feminine  in 


CORONATION  OF  GEORGE  IV.  33 

his  nature  for  so  severe  a  profession ;  feminine,  not 
effeminate,  for  on  occasion  he  could  be  brave  as  a 
lion.  At  a  period  when  tenderness  for  animals  was 
rather  ridiculed  than  otherwise,  he  cared  not  for 
laughter  if  the  cat  perched  on  his  shoulder. 

H.  taught  me  many  things,  and,  above  all,  chess, 
when  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  of  which  I  tell, 
because  it  affords  me  the  opportunity  of  saying  my 
say  in  favour  of  teaching  the  game  to  children.  I  am 
persuaded  the  cultivation  of  chess  as  a  recreation  in 
childhood  gives  the  mind  a  spring ;  and  years  after 

I  first  played  I  remember  hearing  of  Dr.  C ,  a 

schoolmaster  at   Hammersmith,  who  encouraged  his 

boys  to  play  chess  on  Sunday.     Whether  Dr.  C 

was  a  D.D.  or  an  LL.D.,  I  know  not ;  but  I  think  he 
was  a  wise  man,  and  that  his  boys,  in  the  few  otherwise 
idle  hours  of  Sunday,  were  better  employed  than  if 
they  had  filled  up  the  time  according  to  their  own 
sweet  will. 

The  first  public  event  of  the  "  twenties  "  which  I 
distinctly  recollect  was  the  coronation  of  George  the 
Fourth,  which  took  place  in  July,  1821.  Of  course 
the  champion  business,  the  backing  horse,  and  the 
gauntlet  of  defiance  were  what  impressed  my  childish 
imagination  most,  and  served  to  imprint  other  details 
on  my  mind.  My  parents  were  intimately  acquainted 

with    Monsieur   V ,  whose  position    at    Carlton 

House  was  officially  called  "  Clerk  of  the  Kitchen," 
whatever  that  may  mean.     He  was  a  man  of  active 

D 


34  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

benevolence,  but  a  little  retiring  and  shy,  as  if 
conscious  of  speaking  English  too  indifferently  to 
enjoy  English  society.  But,  in  fact,  his  duties  were 
so  absorbing  that  he  seldom  mixed  in  it.  When  his 
wife  entertained  friends  at  their  apartments  in  St. 
James's  Palace,  he  perhaps  dropped  in  for  half  an 
hour,  and  that  was  all.  She  was  a  Scotch  woman,  of 
more  than  average  culture,  a  woman  who  thought  as 
well  as  read.  She  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  Pope ; 
and,  from  her  quotations  and  recitations  from  his 
translation  of  Homer,  did  I  first  form  any  idea  of 
the  "  Iliad." 

The  preparations  for  the  coronation  banquet  de- 
volved on  Monsieur  V ,  and  I  understood  that  for 

the  three  weeks  previous  to  it  he  never  went  to  bed. 
The  day  before  the  occasion,  assistance  was  found  to 
run  short,  and  I  believe  many  gentlemen,  "  for  the 
fun  of  the  thing,"  donned  the  garb  of  waiters  and 
officiated  in  that  capacity.  I  always  understood  that 
my  brother  might  have  been  one  of  these  had  he  so 
pleased.  The  coronation  ceremonies  were  said  to 
have  been  a  great  fatigue  to  the  elderly  and  prema- 
turely worn-out  monarch.  Six  sisters,  the  Misses 

W ,  one    of  whom  I   afterwards  knew,  strewed 

flowers  before  the  king  as  he  walked  in  procession. 

I  wonder  if  any  reader  will  sympathise  with  my 
feeling  about  flowers,  and  agree  with  me  that  their 
spirit-breath  bears  a  divine  message,  and  that  it  is 
meet  that  they  should  neither  be  trampled  under- 


QUEEN  CAROLINE.  35 

foot,  even  by  the  most  exalted  of  human  beings, 
nor  thrown  into  a  grave  with  the  dead ! 

The  attempt  of  the  unhappy,  unfortunate,  and  ill- 
advised  Queen  Caroline  to  force  her  way  into  the 
Abbey  is  now  matter  of  history  ;  but  well  I  remember 
the  talk  of  the  time  about  her.  I  think  people  are 
often  sadly  careless  as  to  what  they  say  in  the  pre- 
sence of  children  on  subjects  which  the  young  cannot 
possibly  understand.  They  think  that  the  un-under- 
stood  passes  from  the  mind  unheeded,  whereas  the 
observant  child  often  ponders  and  ruminates,  and 
ends  by  falling  into  some  absurd  opinion.  Partisan 
spirit  ran  very  high  on  the  subject  of  Queen 
Caroline's  trial ;  and  one  day  I  was  asked  by  a  little 
girl,  younger  than  myself,  neither  of  us  being  ten 
years  old,  whether  I  was  "  for  the  king  or  the  queen." 
I  promptly  answered,  "For  the  queen,"  and  she  as 
promptly  retorted,  "  Oh,  we  are  for  the  king."  I  had 
heard  the  queen  very  much  pitied,  and  I  believe  the 
chief  idea  I  grasped  was  that  it  was  very  cruel  not 
to  let  her  adopt  a  little  boy  if  she  wished  to  do  so.  I 
fancy  there  are  few  people  now  who  do  not  consider 
she  was  worthy  of  pity.  The  circumstances  of  her 
marriage  were  horrible ;  her  worst  faults,  those  of 
wrong-headedness  and  imprudence,  were  the  result 
of  a  very  imperfect  education  ;  conceding  that,  she 
did  not  endure  the  scorn  and  contumely  with  which 
she  was  treated  with  the  resignation  of  a  saint. 

A  little  incident,  of  which  my  mother  was  an  eye- 


36  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

witness,  illustrated  the  want  of  tact  and  forbearance 
on  the  part  of  poor  Queen  Caroline  which  often 
increased  her  troubles.  It  chanced  that  the  king — 
it  might  have  been  when  he  was  only  Prince  Regent 
— and  his  discarded  wife  were  at  the  same  theatre 
the  same  evening,  their  respective  boxes  being  on 
the  opposite  sides  of  the  house.  After  the  loyal 
greeting  of  the  audience  had  been  acknowledged  by 
the  king  and  he  had  taken  his  seat,  Queen  Caroline 
rose,  and  from  the  front  of  her  box  made  him  a  stately 
courtesy ;  in  return  the  king  rose  and  bowed  to  her 
with  equal  formality.  Surely  it  would  have  been 
wiser  of  her  to  have  shrouded  herself  behind  the 
curtain  of  her  box  ! 

A  few  weeks  after  the  coronation  of  her  husband, 
Caroline  of  Brunswick  passed  away,  and  I  was  taken 
to  see  her  unostentatious  funeral  cortege  pass  along 
the  New  Road.  The  day  was  one  of  those  chilly, 
rainy  summer  days  which  are  so  depressing ;  and 
people  commented  on  the  weather  being  in  harmony 
with  the  occasion. 

I  have  alluded  to  M.  V ,  who  occupied  apart- 
ments in  St.  James's  Palace.  A  somewhat  humorous 
incident  occurs  to  me,  in  which  the  Clerk  of  the 
Kitchen  showed  himself  fully  equal  to  an  emergency. 

One  day  the  king — I  think  it  was  when  he  was 

Prince  Regent — sent  for  Monsieur  V ,  wishing  to 

speak  to  him.  "  Amand,"  he  exclaimed,  addressing 
him  by  his  Christian  name,  always  with  George  the 


"  THE   CLERK  OF  THE  KITCHEN."  37 

Fourth  a  mark  of  favour,  "  I  have  been  told  that  to 
enjoy  a  beefsteak  in  perfection  it  should  be  eaten 
direct  from  the  gridiron,  so  I  am  thinking  of  bringing 
a  friend  or  two  to  sup  off  one  in  the  kitchen."  No 
doubt  the  conversation  was  in  French,  though  I 
heard  it  reported  in  English.  I  think  the  scene 
was  at  Carlton  House,  the  following  evening  being 
the  one  appointed.  The  proposed  supper  was  cer- 
tainly a  "  new  departure."  Short  as  the  time  was  for 

preparation,  Monsieur  V was  able  to  have  the 

kitchen  hung  with  crimson  cloth  and  otherwise  deco- 
rated, until  it  appeared  a  handsome  salle  a  manger ; 
only  the  grilling  took  place  in  the  presence  of  the 
prince  and  his  boon-companions.  What  other  viands 
were  added  to  the  homely  steak  I  know  not;  but 
the  supper  was  pronounced  a  great  success,  and  the 

revelry  of  it  lasted  for  hours,  Monsieur  V being 

warmly  complimented  on  his  achievement. 

I  wonder  if  the  literary  men  who  some  time  in  the 
"  fifties  "  established  the  "  kitchen  club,"  periodically 
excluding  their  servants  from  the  lower  regions  to 
practise  or  witness  culinary  operations,  were  aware 
that  they  had  been  partially  forestalled  by  so  fine  a 
gentleman  and  rare  an  epicure  as  George  the  Fourth  ! 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  London  of  the  days 
of  George  the  Fourth  as  vividly  as  it  remains  in 
my  own  memory.  I  beheld  Regent  Street  in  the 
process  of  building,  and  when  the  southern  portion 
of  it  was  a  mass  of  scaffolding.  I  recollect  when  one 


38  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

end  of  St.  Martin's  Lane  must  have  occupied  the  site 
of  Trafalgar  Square,  for  it  led  to  a  narrow  part  of  the 
Strand  where  one  had  to  crane  the  neck  to  look  up 
at  the  lion  on  Northumberland  House.  London  is 
now  a  city  of  palaces — then  it  was  a  picturesque  old 
place  that  must  have  been  delightful  to  a  cultivated 
antiquary,  so  rich  was  it  in  historical  associations. 
Even  in  childhood  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to 
have  the  scene  of  a  famous  event  pointed  out  to  me, 
or  to  be  instructed  in  the  customs  of  a  preceding  age. 
I  remember  one  or  two  sedan  chairs  waiting  for  hire 
near  the  West  End  squares ;  but  they  were  worn  and 
shabby,  though  with  likeness  enough  of  their  better 
selves  to  recall  Hogarth's  pictures  to  mind.  In 
keeping  with  the  sedan  chairs  were  the  huge  ex- 
tinguishers remaining  at  the  doors  of  many  good 
houses,  and  used  to  put  out  the  torches  that  were 
required  when  oil-lamps  were  feeble  and  gas  was 
as  yet  undreamed  of.  Small  as  London  was,  com- 
pared with  its  present  magnitude,  I  have  no  recollec- 
tion of  the  thoroughfares  being  crowded  as  they  are 
nowadays.  But  very  noisy  the  streets  were  when 
the  roadways  were  composed  of  great  stones,  the 
macadamizing  process  only  coming  in,  I  think,  with 
the  "twenties."  Not  that  the  noise  proceeded  from 
excess  of  vehicular  traffic,  for  cabs  were  not  intro- 
duced until  about  1826,  and  omnibuses  not  till  two 
or  three  years  later. 

There  were,  however,  hackney   coaches   in   abun- 


HACKNEY  COACHES.  39 

dance,  large  lumbering  vehicles  that  at  a  pinch  were 
capable  of  holding  six  persons.  These  coaches — 
with,  usually,  old  men  for  drivers,  and  drawn  by  a 
pair  of  sorry-looking  steeds — were  generally  the  dis- 
carded carriages  of  the  nobility  and  gentry,  and  had 
no  doubt  seen  long  service  in  rural  districts  and  on 
bad  roads  before  they  sank  to  their  humbler  con- 
dition. But  even  in  their  decay  the  thick  cushions 
and  faded  linings  of  these  hackney  coaches  told  of 
better  days,  and  seemed  out  of  harmony  with  the 
musty  straw  at  the  bottom.  A  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  who  died  a  nonagenarian,  used  to  declare  that 
in  the  last  century  the  best  glass  for  carriage  windows 
was  made  by  a  person  living  in  Smithfield,  who  died 
without  revealing  the  secret  of  the  manufacture  ;  and 
that  so  highly  were  his  wares  esteemed  for  their 
transparency,  that  when  hackney  coaches  were  dis- 
continued, opticians  eagerly  bought  up  such  old  glass 
of  this  fine  quality  as  remained  in  connection  with 
them,  for  the  purpose  of  grinding  into  eyeglasses  and 
spectacles. 

I  may  mention  that  in  the  days  of  George  the 
Fourth  the  Haymarket  justified  its  name ;  for  at 
least  once  a  week,  and  I  think  oftener,  the  top  of  it 
was  well-nigh  blocked  up  by  the  fragrant  loads  of 
hay  which  often  reached  to  the  first  floor  windows  of 
the  houses,  the  carts  remaining  stationary  for  hours, 
with  their  shafts  resting  on  the  ground,  after  the 
horses  had  been  removed.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  regular 


40  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

hay-market,  and  in  breezy  weather  particles  of  hay 
were  blown  about  in  all  directions.  It  must  have 
been  about  the  time  when  omnibuses  began  to  run 
that  the  hay-carts  ceased  to  obstruct  a  busy  thorough- 
fare. 

There  was  a  celebrity  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
whom  I  well  remember,  as  he  appeared  in  the  early 
days  of  George  the  Fourth's  reign — an  old  man  of,  I 
should  think,  more  than  eighty  years  of  age.  This 
was  Major  Cartwright,  a  man  who,  in  comparatively 
early  life,  had  voluntarily  sacrificed  his  worldly  pros- 
pects. An  officer  in  the  British  navy,  already  some- 
what distinguished,  he  withdrew  from  the  service 
rather  than  fight  against  the  Americans,  with  whom 
he  sympathized  in  their  declaration  of  independence. 
A  fine  proceeding  this  seemed  in  the  eyes  of  certain 
shallow  thinkers  who  made  a  hero  of  him,  but  perhaps 
the  world  would  be  more  of  a  bedlam  and  battle-field 
even  than  it  is  if  our  sailors  and  soldiers  usurped  the 
authority  of  their  rulers  instead  of  obeying  them. 

Shortly  after  his  retirement  from  the  navy,  Major 
Cartwright  received  a  commission,  as  major  in  the 
Nottinghamshire  Militia,  hence  the  title  by  which 
he  was  subsequently  known.  For  some  years  he 
was  our  near  neighbour,  a  tall,  thin,  venerable-looking 
old  man,  with  that  bleached  complexion  which  is 
often  seen  at  an  advanced  period  of  life,  but  which  has 
nothing  sickly  about  it.  I  think  he  could  never  have 
gone  out  in  other  than  very  genial  weather,  for  he 


MAJOR   CARTWR1GHT.  41 

dwells  in  my  memory  as  attired  in  summer  clothing, 
nankeen  "  tights,"  with  gaiters,  and  a  long,  flapped 
waistcoat.  I  never  saw  him  walking  alone ;  for 
generally  he  had  a  friend  on  each  side,  with  whom 
he  seemed  to  be  enjoying  conversation.  But  as,  with 
sauntering  pace,  he  passed  some  houses  from  which 
he  was  recognized,  the  exclamations  inside  were, 
"Horrid  Radical,"  "Shocking  Republican,"  etc.,  for 
the  sight  of  him  was  as  a  "  red  rag "  to  provoke  the 
ire  of  the  Tories.  Yet  now  there  is  a  statue  of 
Major  Cartwright  in  Burton  Crescent,  his  place  of 
residence  for  years,  and  erected  after  his  death  by 
sympathizing  admirers.  Be  it  understood  that,  in 
the  early  "twenties,"  Burton  Crescent  was  a  locality 
in  high  repute  as  the  residence  of  wealthy  merchants 
and  professional  men.  The  garden  was  kept  in 
exquisite  order,  each  householder  having  a  key, 
and  in  those  ante-police  days  the  "beadle,"  who 
seemed  constantly  on  the  watch,  was  the  terror  of 
naughty  children  if  they  attempted  to  pluck  flowers, 
or  break  down  the  shrubs. 

In  those  early  days  of  George  the  Fourth's  reign, 
and  indeed  while  my  friend  lived,  I  knew  well  a 
stockbroker  of  some  eminence,  who  used  to  tell  an 
amusing  story  of  the  great  Rothschild,  as  the  founder 
of  the  English  branch  of  the  family  used  to  be  called. 

Mr.  D.  H was  also  of  the  "  chosen  people,"  and 

like  some  others  of  his  "  nation,"  whom  I  have  been 
fortunate  enough  to  know,  a  man  of  marked  integrity 


42  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

and  active  benevolence.  When  he  was  a  very  young 
man  he  often  transacted  affairs  with  Rothschild,  but 
on  one  occasion  the  business  on  the  exchange  which 
he  had  to  transact  was  on  so  small  a  scale  that  he 
took  it  to  a  less  famous  house.  Somehow  or  other 
Rothschild  heard  that  he  had  done  so,  and,  the  next 
time  they  met,  rebuked  him  by  asking  why  he  had 
not  come  to  him. 

"Oh,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  D.  H ,  "I  thought  a 

matter  of  eighteenpence  too  small  to  bring  here." 

"  Ah,  but  bishness  is  bishness,"  returned  the  great 
man. 

My  old  friend  described  the  scene  in  a  lively 
manner,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Rothschild  was  generally 
at  the  counting-house,  keeping  the  books,  and  wear- 
ing two  watches,  according  to  an  ostentatious  though 
short-lived  fashion,  when  women  displayed  their 
watches  at  the  waist. 

I  remember  a  silhouette  of  the  great  Rothschild, 
a  form  of  portraiture  very  common  at  the  beginning 
of  this  century.  It  represented  a  large  man  of  very 
rotund  figure.  Mentioning  these  black  profiles  re- 
minds me  of  a  Frenchman  who,  in  the  "  twenties," 
dispensed  with  the  usual  silhouette  machinery,  but 
cut  out  admirable  likenesses  with  a  pair  of  scissors 
by  merely  looking  at  his  subject.  He  had  been  an 
officer  in  the  "  grand  army  "  under  the  first  Napoleon. 


MRS.  DAV1SON.  43 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Mrs.  Davison  and  her  son,  the  future  musical  critic  of  the  Times — A 
glimpse  of  Miss  O'Neill,  Miss  S.  Booth,  and  an  anecdote  of  the 
"  Young  Roscius  " — Edmund  Kean — Charles  Kemble— Malibran. 

A  MORE  interesting  person,  to  me,  however,  than 
Major  Cartwright,  or  even  the  great  Rothschild,  was 
the  well-known  actress,  Mrs.  Davison — the  Miss 
Duncan  who  for  many  years  held  sway  as  the  ex- 
ponent of  what  was  called  "  genteel  comedy."  She 
was  our  near  neighbour,  and  my  mother  and  she 
were  great  friends,  while  her  two  sons  were  the  play- 
mates of  my  younger  brother  E.  ;  my  playmates,  or, 
at  any  rate,  child-companions,  also,  I  might  say, 
for  they  were  not  boisterous  boys.  The  elder,  James, 
became  the  celebrated  musical  critic  of  the  Times, 
and  I  recollect  the  old  five  and  a  half  octaves  piano, 
on  which — not  till  he  was  advanced  in  his  teens — he 
first  learned  to  play.  As  all  who  knew  him  must 
remember,  he  was  lame,  a  misfortune  which  was  the 
consequence  of  an  accident  in  infancy,  his  nurse 
having  let  him  fall,  and  concealed  an  injury  that  he 
received  until  too  late  to  repair  it. 

I  confess  to  having  some  faith  in  what  is  called  a 


44  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

desultory  education.  I  believe  it  often  suits  genius 
remarkably  well.  I  cannot  say  I  remember  distinctly 
the  details  of  the  education  of  the  two  Davisons — 
they  seemed  to  be  often  at  home,  and  perhaps  for  a 
portion  of  their  boyhood  only  attended  a  day  school. 
But  I  do  well  recollect  that  James  was  a  devourer  of 
books,  even  at  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  age.  If  one 
called  at  the  house,  and  "  Jem  "  was  at  home,  it  was 
pretty  certain  that  he  would  be  found  reading ;  if 
one  met  him  in  the  street  he  always  seemed  to  have 
a  book  under  his  arm,  or  probably  several  volumes 
held  together  by  a  strap ;  for  the  Davisons  had  a 
friend  in  a  neighbouring  street  who  possessed  a  fine 
library,  and  I  understood  that  the  boys  were  allowed 
the  free  use  of  it.  In  those  days  circulating  libraries 
were  poor  affairs,  never  supplying  readers  with  history, 
biography,  or  any  works  of  real  educational  value  ; 
and  intelligent  young  people  of  both  sexes  were 
often  largely  indebted  to  the  generosity  of  kind 
lenders.  Perhaps  now  that  there  are  so  many 
methods  of  obtaining  books,  undreamed  of  in  the 
"  twenties,"  there  is  some  excuse  for  the  people  who 
decline  to  lend  their  books — and  there  are  two  sides 
to  the  question.  I  think  no  one  should  hinder  the 
sale  of  a  good  book  by  offering  to  lend  it ;  though 
the  loan  may  be  a  priceless  boon  to  one  who  is  too 
poor  to  otherwise  procure  the  coveted  treasure. 
There  was  something  really  beautiful  in  the  brotherly 
love  of  the  two  boys,  the  younger,  without  a  spice  of 


MRS.  D AVISO N.  45 

jealousy,  recognizing  in  childhood  the  ability  and 
attainments  of  the  elder.  There  could  have  been 
only  a  year  or  two  of  difference  in  age  between  them, 
and  they  were  slightly  my  juniors,  but  I  remember 
how  William  appealed  to  his  brother,  or  if  James 
were  not  present,  he  would  certainly  find  occasion 
to  say,  "I  must  ask  Jem,"  or  "Jem  thinks,"  or  "I 
must  tell  Jem,"  showing  how  one  mind  leaned  on 
the  other.  Not  that  William  was  deficient  in  mental 
ability,  far  otherwise ;  and  I  think  he  must  have  had, 
what  phrenologists  call,  constructiveness  to  a  large 
degree,  for  he  excelled  in  making  toy  coaches,  etc., 
out  of  pasteboard,  painting  and  finishing  them  to 
perfection. 

In  private  life  Mrs.  Davison  was  an  admirable 
woman  ;  and  she  was  a  fine  actress  of  that  old  school 
which,  to  the  general  public  of  to-day,  can  be  but  a 
tradition.  Of  course  her  prime  was  past  when  I 
knew  her,  and  I  never  saw  her  personate  any  of  the 
youthful  characters  by  the  sustaining  of  which  she 
had  gained  eminence ;  but  I  recollect  her  when 
engaged  at  the  Haymarket,  I  think  about  1824, 
playing  important  but  rather  matronly  parts — often 
in  conjunction  with  Liston,  when  she  well  sustained 
her  high  reputation,  and  was  greeted  with  warm 
applause  by  the  old  playgoers.  It  was  about  this 
time,  or  a  little  earlier,  that  she  was  somewhat  hurt 
by  being  "  cast "  by  the  manager  for  "  Mrs.  Candour  " 
in  the  School  for  Scandal;  but  the  revenge  she  took 


46  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

was  to  act  this  subordinate  part  so  well  that  it  was 
said  she  played  down  the  "  Lady  Teazle."  She  had 
a  fine  figure,  and  fine  features,  which,  being  a  little 
pronounced,  made  her  look  handsomer  on  the  stage 
than  off;  but  the  charm  of  her  acting  was  its  natural- 
ness. Her  enunciation  was  distinct,  and  the  dialogue 
from  her  lips  seemed  the  easy  flow  of  conversation, 
whether  the  scene  were  vivacious  or  pathetic. 

Like  so  many  great  actors,  Mrs.  Davison  was  on 
the  stage  early,  and  she  used  to  tell  the  story  of  Miss 
Farren,  who  married  the  Earl  of  Derby,  throwing  her 
hoop  over  the  young  girl  in  the  green-room,  saying, 
"  You  will  be  the  Lady  Teazle  after  me  ! "  a  predic- 
tion which  was  fulfilled,  for  that  character  was  one  in 
which  she  became  famous.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  if  any 
great  actor  will  arise  to  represent  "  Sir  Peter  Teazle  " 
as  the  man  of  fifty,  as  Sheridan  describes  him,  and 
not  the  senile  septuagenarian  that  is  generally  por- 
trayed !  Undoubtedly  he  is  the  only  true  gentleman 
in  that  very  clever  but  most  unpleasant  play,  and 
deserves  better  treatment  than  he  meets.  Mrs. 
Davison's  character  in  The  Rivals  was  "Maria," 
which  some  people  used  to  say  was  a  more  important 
one  than  "  Lydia  Languish ; "  and  in  an  edition  of 
The  Rivals  which  I  once  saw,  a  portrait  of  Miss 
Duncan  as  "  Maria  "  was  the  frontispiece.  My  recol- 
lection of  her  kindly  gracious  manners  is  still  keen, 
and  I  can  imagine  how  great  an  actress  she  must 
have  been  in  her  youth. 


SARAH  BOOTH.  47 

There  was  another  actress  of  not  less  celebrity  than 
Mrs.  Davison  of  whom  I  must  say  a  few  words. 
This  was  Sarah  Booth,  who,  about  the  period  of  my 
birth,  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  my  parents 
from  some  one  in  the  north  of  England.  She  was 
then  a  young  girl  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  who  had 
already  made  a  high  reputation  in  the  provinces,  but 
came  to  London  to  commence  a  five  years'  engage- 
ment at  Covent  Garden  as  a  leading  actress.  She 
had  a  great  success  as  "  Juliet,"  and  there  is  a  full- 
length  portrait  of  her  in  the  potion  scene,  now  trans- 
ferred to  the  Dramatic  College.  But  I  saw  it  fre- 
quently when  it  hung  on  the  staircase  in  the  house 
she  occupied  for  many  years  in  Bloomsbury  Square* 
The  likeness  was  excellent,  but  the  dress — white 
satin,  I  think — was  in  the  short-waisted  style  of  the 
day.  For  when  Miss  S.  Booth,  as  she  was  always 
called  in  the  playbills,  personated  "  Juliet,"  small 
attention  was  paid  to  fitness  of  costume,  and  mediaeval 
heroines  were  commonly  dressed  in  a  modern  style. 

Sarah  Booth  was  a  well-informed  and  thorough 
gentlewoman  ;  the  youngest  of  three  sisters  and  the 
support  of  her  family,  including  a  widowed  mother 
and  a  young  brother,  until,  through  her  influence,  a 
Government  appointment  was  procured  for  the  latter. 
Her  talents  were  versatile,  for,  though  the  personation 
of  "  Juliet "  was  one  of  her  triumphs,  she  played  in 
comedy  with  equal  success.  She  had  often  taken  the 
heroines'  parts  in  conjunction  with  Betty,  the  boy- 


48  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

actor,  who  was  called  the  "Young  Roscius,"  and 
declared  that  though  apparently  inspired  on  the  stage, 
he  was  still  the  child  off  it  She  said  that  often  behind 
the  scenes  she  played  marbles  with  him  between  the 
acts,  a  game  of  which  he  seemed  never  to  tire.  My 
elders  used  to  speak  with  genuine  regret  of  the  falling 
off  there  was  when  young  Betty  reappeared  in  man- 
hood, only  showing  himself  as  a  very  mediocre  per- 
former. Miss  Booth  was  quite  the  leading  actress  of 
her  theatre  until  Miss  O'Neill  appeared  and  took  the 
town  by  storm.  I  believe  it  was  in  1817  that  Sarah 
Booth's  five  years'  engagement  expired,  and,  though 
the  managers  desired  to  engage  her  for  another  term 
of  five  years,  she  refused  to  be  considered  second  to 
Miss  O'Neill,  and  accepted  a  lucrative  engagement  in 
Dublin.  It  was  shortly  before  she  left  London  that 
a  little  incident  occurred  which  I  believe,  in  no  slight 
degree,  influenced  my  life. 

I  should  mention  that  I  was  so  early  a  playgoer 
that  I  have  no  recollection  of  there  being  any  novelty 
in  my  going  to  the  theatres.  Probably  our  intimacy 
with  Sarah  Booth,  who  often  sent  us  orders,  was  the 
occasion  of  these — wise  or  unwise — indulgences.  I 
fear  they  were  injurious  to  health,  but  not  mentally 
hurtful,  I  am  very  sure. 

One  evening  Miss  Booth  had  been  dining  at  our 
house — a  five-o'clock  dinner  I  think  it  was — with  the 
understanding  that  she  must  leave  early,  as  she  had 
to  deliver  an  epilogue  after  the  tragedy  in  which  Miss 


SARAH  BOOTH.  49 

O'Neill  was  performing.  She  had  promised  to  take 
my  mother  with  her  to  the  theatre  ;  and,  to  my  great 
delight,  I  was  allowed  to  go  with  them.  I  fancy  I  had 
been  put  to  sleep  on  the  sofa  for  two  or  three  hours 
previously,  or  could  hardly  have  been  so  wide  awake, 
as  I  certainly  was,  when  lifted  into  the  hackney-coach 
at  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  at  night,  for  I  could 
have  been  little  more  than  five  years  old  when 
the  circumstance  took  place.  To  this  day  I 
remember  vividly  the  incidents  of  that  evening — the 
being  ushered  into  Miss  Booth's  dressing-room,  a 
spacious  apartment,  where  a  bright  fire  blazed,  and 
where  at  each  end  a  toilet-table  was  arranged  with 
tall  wax  candles  lighted.  The  second  toilet-table 
was  reserved  for  another  actress  of  some  celebrity — 
Mrs.  Egerton,  I  think — but  whom  I  did  not  see. 
There  was  an  air  of  luxurious  comfort  about  the  room 
which  impressed  me,  and  the  door  was  shielded  by 
the  fastfortitrel  can  recollect  seeing. 

I  stood  by  Miss  Booth  while  she  dabbed  her  cheeks 
with  rouge,  a  process  which  I  did  not  think  improved 
her.  Soon  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the 
portttre  was  lifted  by  a  tall  gentlemanly  man,  who 
presently  seemed  to  be  a  particularly  kind  one.  I 
think  he  must  have  been  a  man  who  liked  children, 
and  with  whom,  consequently,  children  are  at  ease. 
I  fancy  my  mother  was  anxious  that  I  should  be 
able  to  say  I  had  seen  Miss  O'Neill.  The  tragedy 
in  which  she  was  acting  was  not  quite  over.  I 

E 


50  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

remember  being  in  charge  of  the  tall  gentleman, 
who  talked  to  me,  and,  I  suppose,  listened  to  my 
chatter.  At  the  stage  door  he  tossed  me  up  on 
to  his  left  arm,  just  as  a  nurse  tosses  up  a  much 
younger  child,  in  order  that  my  eyes  might  be  on  a 
level  with  a  broad  slit  in  the  door.  Through  this 
slit  not  only  the  stage  but  the  whole  ;house  was 
visible.  What  I  saw  on  the  stage  was  a  figure  in 
white,  making  gestures  which,  of  course,  I  could  not 
comprehend,  and  uttering  language  I  did  not  under- 
stand. Neither  did  I  comprehend  the  epilogue,  which, 
after  the  green  curtain  had  fallen,  Miss  Booth  came 
forward  to  deliver  in  just  the  same  dress  she  had  worn 
all  the  evening,  a  thing  that  seemed  strange.  But 
what  impressed  me  was  the  crowded  pit,  the  sea  of 
upturned  faces  which  it  presented,  nearly  all  mascu- 
line, with  a  very  large  proportion  of  bald  heads.  I 
fancy  few  women  were  found  to  attempt  the  crush 
that  was  encountered  in  the  struggle  for  a  seat  in  the 
pit  in  the  days  of  Miss  O'Neill,  when  people  waited 
in  the  street,  with  more  or  less  patience,  for  hours 
before  the  doors  opened.  Young  as  I  was  the  scene 
made  a  life-long  impression.  When,  in  the  early  days 
of  my  womanhood,  it  became  painfully  apparent  that 
I  must  "  earn  my  own  living,"  it  was  with  inclination 
amounting  to  desire,  that  my  thoughts  turned  to  the 
stage,  identifying  myself  with  some  of  Shakespeare's 
heroines.  I  even  dreamed  vividly  several  times  of 
being  about  to  appear  on  the  stage,  but  ever  there 


EDMUND  KEAN.  51 

came  before  me  the  scene  of  those  upturned  faces, 
which  I  felt  I  never  could  encounter.  Often  I  re- 
gretted my  weakness ;  yet  I  have  learned  to  believe, 
that  when,  throughout  life,  our  wills  and  wishes  are 
overmastered  by  some  apparently  trivial  incident  or 
recollection,  the  overmastering  is  by  a  Divine  Hand, 
and  for  our  benefit.  Worldly  prosperity  is  not  the 
highest  good  which  that  Hand  has  to  bestow.  I 
know  that  childish  recollection  was  revivified  a  multi- 
tude of  times,  no  doubt  for  a  wise  purpose,  for  in  my 
subsequent  playgoing  I  hardly  ever  looked  at  the 
white  and  gold  stage  doors,  customary  in  theatres, 
without  wondering  what  eyes  were  gazing  through 
their  slits,  and  recalling  a  scene  which  even  now, 
after  more  than  seventy  years,  is  as  fresh  as  ever. 

For  the  first  half  of  my  life  I  was  a  frequent  play- 
goer, and  may  be  allowed  to  recall  some  of  the  recol- 
lections of  my  early  youth.  I  must  have  been  about 
seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  age  when  my  dear 
brother  H.  took  me  to  see  the  elder  Kean  as 
"Shylock"  and  "Othello."  It  may  be  a  sort  of 
heresy,  but  I  believe  the  young,  supposing  they  are 
imaginative  and  impressionable,  are  not  the  worst 
judges  of  acting.  Unspoilt  by  the  cant  of  criticism, 
their  hearts  are  touched  by  every  stroke  of  true 
genius,  without  their  reasoning  on  the  why  or  where- 
fore they  are  affected.  I  dare  say  Edmund  Kean 
was  an  uncertain  actor,  but  at  his  best  he  was 
assuredly  supreme.  I  can  fancy  a  commonplace  actor 


52  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

would  represent  "  Shylock  "  as  fiendish,  but  Edmund 
Kean  made  the  Jew  human — a  man  torn  by  revenge 
for  many  injuries,  and  especially  heart-wrung  by  the 
desertion  of  his  daughter  for  a  Christian.  In  the 
scene  where  he  hears  of  "  Jessica's  "  proceedings,  and 
how  she  had  bartered  for  a  monkey  the  ring  she 
had  stolen,  "  Shylock  "  exclaims :  "  Thou  torturest  me, 
Tubal !  It  was  my  turquoise  ;  I  had  it  of  Leah, 
when  I  was  a  bachelor.  I  would  not  have  given  it 
for  a  wilderness  of  monkeys."  I  can  never  forget 
the  depth  of  anguish  he  expressed  in  these  few 
words — anguish  that  was  hardly  mastered  by  his 
revenge  throughout  his  magnificent  personation  of 
"  Shylock."  My  impression  of  Edmund  Kean  is  that 
he  could  express  the  extremes  of  tragic  emotion,  yet 
without  crossing  the  boundary-line  which  separates 
it  from  extravagance  and  bombast.  I  think  he  was 
more  of  a  momentarily  inspired  actor  than  the 
patient  accomplished  artist. 

The  "  Portia"  on  the  occasion  referred  to  was  Miss 
Philips,  a  young  actress  whom  I  had  previously 
seen  in  Miss  Mitford's  play  of  Rienzi.  I  think  she 
had  only  been  a  year  or  two  on  the  stage  when  she 
married  and  retired  into  private  life,  but  she  deserves 
a  word  of  recognition.  Tall,  graceful,  and  dignified, 
she  seemed  to  me  an  ideal  "  Portia." 

Twice  I  saw  Edmund  Kean  in  Othello,  and  I 
imagine  his  representation  of  the  "  Moor "  was  as 
grand  an  achievement  as  was  ever  witnessed  on  the 


EDMUND  KEAN.  53 

stage.  I  do  not  think  Othello  is  a  woman's  play, 
and  I  still  like  it  the  least  of  what  are  called 
Shakespeare's  five  greatest  dramas.  "  Desdemona  "  is 
a  poor  creature  that  calls  forth  no  loftier  feeling  than 
pity ;  and  groundless  jealousy  is  not  a  quality  that 
women  feel  inclined  to  condone.  But  Kean  made 
the  famous  soldier,  the  happy  "Othello,"  so  tender 
and  true  that  the  heart  went  out  to  him  to  the  bitter 
end.  In  Othello  there  are  several  very  effective 
speeches,  and  I  especially  remember  the  one  that 
ends  with  the  line — 

"  Farewell !  Othello's  occupation's  gone." 

There  seemed  tears,  a  strong  man's  unshed  tears, 
in  the  voice,  and  the  effect  on  the  audience  was 
electric.  There  was  the  hush  of  rapt  attention 
while  the  words  were  delivered,  a  few  seconds  of 
absolute  silence,  and  then  the  simultaneous  thunder- 
burst  of  applause ! 

We  were  in  about  the  third  row  of  the  pit — of 
Drury  Lane  Theatre,  I  think  it  was — and  in  those 
days  when  stalls  were  not,  a  good  seat  in  the  pit 
was  unquestionably  the  best  place  in  the  house. 
Middle-class  families  were  generally  great  play- 
goers, and — unless  they  took  benefit  tickets  for  some 
favourite — seldom  went  elsewhere.  Habitual  fre- 
quenters of  the  pit  knew  a  "dodge"  or  two  by 
which  a  good  seat  could  generally  be  secured.  I 
only  remember  one  drawback.  Bonnets  were  bonnets 


54  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

in  those  days,  and  ladies  were  pretty  sure  to  be 
requested  by  some  one  behind  them  to  take  off 
their  bonnets,  which  hindered  a  view  of  the  stage. 
This  seemed  a  nuisance,  but  had  to  be  done,  for 
bonnets  were  large  sheltering  headgear  at  this  period. 
Admission  to  the  pit  was  three-and-sixpence  at  Drury 
Lane  and  Covent  Garden,  and  only  at  these  theatres, 
and  at  what  was  called  the  little  theatre  in  the 
Haymarket,  could  the  drama  styled  "  legitimate  "  be 
acted.  Actors  always  said  if  they  satisfied  the 
pit — if  the  pit  "  rose  to  them  "  was  a  phrase  used — 
all  must  be  going  well. 

Those  three-and-sixpences — multiplied  by  three  or 
four — rolled  out  of  the  pocket  of  pater  pretty  often 
in  many  a  circle  of  what  is  now  called  the  upper 
middle-class.  Pieces  were  not  so  elaborately  set  on 
the  stage,  consequently  there  was  more  variety  in  the 
bills ;  and  even  when  a  new  play  was  having  a  run 
it  was  often  only  acted  three  times  a  week,  so  that 
there  were  changes  for  alternate  nights. 

I  suppose  that  according  to  the  modern  code  of 
opinions  it  is  heretical  to  hint  that  the  sumptuous 
elaboration  of  scenery  and  dress  may  be  carried  too 
far !  Yet,  personally,  I  feel  that  the  admiration 
elicited  from  an  audience  by  the  ultra-realistic  setting 
up  of  a  play  distracts  the  attention  from  the  play 
itself.  It  is  a  trite  saying  that  actors  and  managers 
live  to  please,  and  must  please  to  live.  Of  latter 
years  it  has  seemed,  in  my  humble  opinion,  that 


THE  OLD   THEATRES.  55 

they  have  set  themselves  to  please  mainly  the 
pleasure-loving  throng  instead  of  the  select  few, 
whose  far-reaching  approval  would  in  the  long  run 
elevate  the  taste  of  the  many.  Fifty  or  sixty  years 
ago  parents  took  their  sons  and  daughters  to  see  a 
fine  play  less  as  an  amusement  than  that  they  might 
benefit  by  its  influence  on  their  minds.  I  am  afraid 
Shakespeare,  though  more  talked  about,  is  less 
studied  now  than  then.  Of  course  there  are  glorious 
exceptions  ;  but,  as  a  rule,  I  fear  authors  and  actors, 
and  every  description  of  artists,  are  less  sensitive  to 
the  duties  of  their  high  calling,  less  conscious  of  the 
responsibility  entailed  by  the  talents  confided  to 
them,  than  once  upon  a  time  they  were.  Periods 
there  have  been  when  the  painter  was  the  sublime 
exponent  of  human  emotions  and  Divine  lessons, 
and  when  the  stage,  obeying  "  Hamlet's  "  instructions, 
''held,  as  'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  Nature,  showed 
Virtue  her  own  feature,  Scorn  her  own  image,  and  the 
very  age  and  body  of  the  Time  his  form  and  pressure." 
But  now  the  painter  too  often  thinks  first  of  subjects 
that  will  please  the  many — that  is,  the  mediocre  class 
— and,  consequently,  tell ;  and  the  dramatist  and 
actor  seek  before  all  things  to  amuse  the  masses, 
indifferent  apparently  to  the  task  of  elevating  them. 
Also,  people  run  after  one  favourite  performer, 
comparatively  indifferent  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  subordinate  characters  are  represented.  It  was 
not  so  when  Charles  Kemble  acted  "  Cassio,"  or 


55  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

"  Faulconbridge,"  or  "  Mercutio  ;  "  or,  a  little  later  on, 
when  Keeley's  "  Peter,"  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  became 
a  personage  that  "  brought  down  "  the  house.  By- 
the-by,  why  is  "Juliet's"  foster-nurse  always  repre- 
sented as  an  old  woman  ?  Shakespeare  could  not 
have  intended  her  to  be  more  than  seven  or  eight 
and  thirty.  Possibly  there  might  be  a  very  effective 
rendering  of  her  as  a  woman  in  the  prime  of  life, 
a  plebeian  tolerated  as  the  close  associate  of  he 
young  mistress  from  the  office  she  had  rilled,  ignorant, 
garrulous,  unscrupulous,  with  just  as  much  touch  of 
vulgarity  as  one  dare  to  associate  with  an  Italian. 

I  shall  not  presume  to  write  of  actors,  whose 
triumphs  are  still  remembered  by  thousands  of  the 
general  public  ;  but  Malibran  must  have  been  dead 
more  than  fifty  years,  and  I  desire  to  chronicle  my 
opinion  that  she  was  one  of  the  greatest  actresses 
that  ever  lived.  Her  singing  was  delicious  ;  but  of 
that  I  will  not  speak.  Her  acting  in  the  Sonnam- 
bula  was  in  its  way  as  powerful  as  anything  I 
remember  of  the  elder  Kean's.  How  she  sang,  if 
it  were  only  recitative,  and  at  the  same  time  ex- 
pressed in  gesture  and  movement  the  passion  of 
the  opera,  was  something  marvellous.  Especially 
does  memory  recall  the  scene  with  "  Elvino,"  in  which 
she  asserts  her  innocence  to  her  unbelieving  lover. 
Kneeling  to  him,  he  repulsing  her,  she  clinging  to 
his  ankle,  till  he  dragged  her  quite  across  the  Drury 
Lane  stage,  her  loosened  hair  streaming  and  touching 


MALIBRAN.  57 

the  ground.  This  description  seems  suggestive  only 
of  the  exaggeration  which  oversteps  the  limits  of 
high  histrionic  art.  But  the  reality  did  not.  One 
night  a  voice  near  us  in  the  pit — that  of  a  man 
apparently  approaching  forty  years  of  age,  exclaimed 
audibly,  "  My  G — ,  how  can  he  stand  it ! "  There 
was  a  story  widely  believed,  though  perhaps  only 
ben  trovato,  that  after  some  impassioned  scene, 
probably  the  one  I  have  described,  Malibran  once 
seized  a  pot  of  porter  belonging  to  a  stage  carpenter 
and  refreshed  herself  with  a  draught,  and  that  ever 
afterwards  the  beverage  was  provided  for  her.  But 
another  anecdote  I  had  from  one  of  her  intimates. 
It  was  that  stage  dresses  were  trouble  enough  to 
Malibran,  without  having  to  think  of  the  ordinary 
shifting  fashions  for  private  life ;  so  she  paid  a 
West  End  milliner  a  hundred  a  year  to  keep  her  well 
dressed  through  all  the  varying  seasons,  without  the 
fuss  and  worry  of  choosing  for  herself.  An  eminently 
wise  arrangement,  it  seems  to  me,  supposing  the 
wearer  and  provider  of  the  dresses  could  rely  on 
according  taste. 


$8  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  British  Legion  in  Spain — Education  for  women — The  old  reading- 
room  of  the  British  Museum — Accession  of  Queen  Victoria. 

THE  seven  years'  reign  of  William  the  Fourth  was  in 
many  respects  a  very  eventful  one.  The  discussion 
concerning,  and  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  caused 
an  agitation  in  every  grade  of  society,  of  which  it 
must  be  very  difficult  for  the  present  generation  to 
form  any  idea.  Optimists  and  pessimists,  elderly 
and  middle-aged,  swang  their  pendulums  to  the 
extreme  of  their  opinions.  On  one  side  we  were  told 
to  expect  universal  prosperity,  on  the  other  that  the 
country  was  going  to  destruction.  I  think  the  result 
was  that  the  generality  of  young  men,  as  well  as 
young  women,  instead  of  taking  a  patriotic  and 
enlightened  interest  in  public  affairs,  as  they  might 
have  done  under  different  circumstances,  grew  heartily 
tired  of  politics.  Not  that  my  contemporaries  were 
altogether  frivolous,  for  the  "  Tracts  for  the  Times  " 
stirred  up  deep  feelings  and  led  to  ample  discussion. 
But  undoubtedly  it  was  at  this  time  that  the  pleasure- 
loving  era  among  the  masses  set  in.  Cabs  and 


THE  BRITISH  LEGION.  59 

omnibuses  were  well  established,  and  made  "  getting 
about"  easy.  Places  of  entertainment  multiplied, 
as  well  as  newspapers  and  cheap  and  amusing 
literature.  Old  people  were  in  a  measure  dazed 
by  the  rapid  changes  that  were  going  on,  and 
greatly  relaxed  their  control  over  the  young,  though 
of  course  there  were  a  few  grand  exceptions  that 
served  as  clogs  to  the  wheels  rolling  on  somewhat 
dangerously. 

One  of  the  noteworthy  events  of  the  Sailor  King's 
reign  was  the  enrolment  of  the  British  Legion  to  serve 
in  Spain  to  uphold  the  rights  of  the  infant  Queen 
Isabella,  under  the  regency  of  her  mother,  whose 
name  they  adopted,  calling  themselves  Christinos. 
My  younger  brother  E.,  who  was  at  this  time  (1835) 
in  his  twentieth  year,  had  always  desired  to  be  a 
soldier, — his  wish  being  something  far  more  earnest 
than  the  short-lived  fancy  so  many  boys  entertain. 
He  really  never  took  interest  in  any  reading  but 
stories  of  adventure.  Tall,  well  made,  good  looking, 
and  with  perfect  health,  and  utterly  fearless,  he  was 
of  the  very  stuff  of  which  good  soldiers  are  made ; 
but  in  our  circumstances  it  was  impossible  to  gratify 
his  inclinations.  He  had  been  in  one  or  two  situations 
that  were  entirely  distasteful  to  him,  and  one  day, 
without  any  preliminary  warning,  announced  to  my 
mother  that  he  had  enlisted  as  a  private — under 
a  false  name — in  the  British  Legion,  then  on  the 
point  of  sailing  for  Santander.  It  appeared  that  he 


60  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

had  formed  the  acquaintance  of  a  Major  Young- 
husband,  who  held  a  commission  in  the  Legion,  and 
who  had  assured  him  that  if  he  would  take  this  step 
he  would  certainly  be  raised  from  the  ranks,  and  have 
a  commission  given  him  soon  after  landing  in  Spain. 
We  were  dismayed  at  what  E.  had  done,  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  since  he  would  not  have  drawn 
back,  even  had  he  been  aided  to  do  so.  It  would 
appear  that  Major  Younghusband  had  really  taken 
a  liking  for  my  brother,  but  he  died  a  few  weeks 
after  the  troops  sailed,  and  E.  found  himself 
without  the  one  friend  on  whom  he  had  relied,  and 
with  comrades  who  were,  for  the  most  part,  desperate 
characters,  with  whom  he  could  have  but  little  fellow- 
ship. Nevertheless,  the  brief  tidings  we  had  from 
him  were  more  cheerful  than  the  circumstances  really 
warranted.  Yet  this  was  to  be  expected  from  a 
high-spirited  youth,  who  had  wilfully  chosen  his  lot. 
But  a  time  came  when  many  weeks  passed  without 
a  letter.  In  those  days  news  was  not  flashed  daily 
from  one  country  to  another,  and  the  newspaper 
accounts  of  the  British  Legion  were  meagre  and  far 
between.  At  last  we  received  a  short  letter,  evidently 
written  under  difficulties,  stating  that  E.,  with  a  large 
proportion  of  the  troop  to  which  he  belonged,  had 
been  stricken  with  fever,  and  imploring  that  a  little 
money  might  be  sent  to  procure  the  food  so  necessary 
for  a  convalescent.  When  the  banknote  which  was 
forwarded  reached  him,  he  still  lay  on  his  wretched 


THE  BRITISH  LEGION.  61 

bed,  with  many  others,  in  a  barn-like  building  which 
had  been  converted  into  a  hospital,  unable  to  use  his 
money  until  he  had  an  opportunity  of  enlisting  the 
services  of  the  doctor,  who  took  charge  of  it,  spending 
it  slowly  and  discreetly  in  milk  and  other  necessaries, 
so  as  not  to  attract  attention ;  for,  as  my  brother 
subsequently  said,  he  was  surrounded  by  men  who 
would  have  murdered  him  had  they  known  there 
were  a  few  pounds  under  his  pillow. 

As  time  went  on  we  were  extremely  anxious, 
until  one  day  I  received  a  letter  or  message,  I  forget 
which,  from  my  dear  uncle,  George  Toulmin,  begging 
me  to  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible,  for  a  very 
urgent  reason.  Uncle  George  was  a  bachelor,  a 
retired  naval  officer,  with  very  little  income  besides 
his  half-pay ;  but  he  was  one  of  the  kindest,  most 
affectionate,  and  generous  of  mortals,  and  among  his 
several  nephews  I  am  inclined  to  think  E.  was 
his  favourite.  Our  Uncle  George  had  never  tied 
himself  down  to  a  permanent  home,  but  liked  the 
independence  of  living  in  lodgings,  which  he  could 
change  at  a  short  notice,  and  pass  from  town  to  the 
seaside,  or  take  a  trip  to  the  Continent  at  his  own 
pleasure.  At  the  time  of  which  I  am  telling  he 
occupied  rooms  on  the  outskirts  of  town,  and  when, 
in  obedience  to  his  summons,  I  presented  myself,  he 
met  me  in  the  hall.  There  was  the  usual  cordial 
greeting,  but  more  than  customary  gravity  in  his 
face,  and  perhaps  I  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  "  for  the  first 


62  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

words  I  remember  his  uttering  were,  "  E.  is  here ! " 
I  saw  the  parlour  door  was  open,  and  instinctively, 
with  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  moved  quickly 
towards  it,  but  my  uncle  in  a  measure  stayed  me 
and  prepared  me  for  a  shock. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  object  which  presented 
itself.  No  stage  get-up  could,  I  think,  quite  imitate 
my  poor  brother's  appearance.  Gaunt  and  thin,  and 
pale  with  a  yellow  paleness,  quite  foreign  to  his 
naturally  clear  healthy  complexion,  with  faded, 
stained  regimentals  that  looked  as  if  the  sleeves  and 
legs  had  never  been  quite  long  enough  for  him,  he 
seemed  the  very  type  of  the  poor,  weather-beaten 
soldier.  Of  course  I  sprang  towards  him,  but  he 
moved  back  a  little,  exclaiming,  "Don't  touch  me, 
I'm  covered  with  vermin  !  " 

It  was  a  terrible  story  of  misery  and  semi-starvation 
he  had  to  tell.  Whose  fault  it  was  that  the  leaders 
of  the  detachment  to  which  my  brother  belonged 
were  unprovided  with  funds  I  am  not  prepared  to 
say ;  but  his  account  was  that,  almost  from  the 
moment  of  landing  in  Spain,  the  privations  of  the 
troops  began.  He  declared  that  sometimes  they 
were  twenty-four  hours  without  food,  and  that  when 
it  arrived  the  animals  were  living.  Oxen  were  hastily 
slaughtered,  and  their  flesh,  not  half  cooked,  was 
devoured  by  the  famishing  men.  Being  untrained 
recruits,  harassing  drill  had  to  be  endured,  and  all 
sorts  of  hardships  encountered.  No  wonder  fever 


THE  BRITISH  LEGION.  63 

broke  out  among  them,  something,  I  imagine,  like 
the  jail  fever  of  which  we  read,  produced  by  bad  and 
insufficient  food,  dirt,  and  overcrowding.  Numbers 
died,  and  the  wonder  seems  rather  that  any  survived. 
So  miserable  was  the  attendance  on  the  sick,  that 
E.  declared  that  for  five  weeks  not  even  his  face 
was  washed.  Some  of  the  horrors  he  witnessed  he 
described  to  my  mother,  but  not  at  the  time  did 
she  give  me  an  idea  of  their  nature.  I  suppose  the 
authorities  were  glad  to  be  rid  of  a  number  of  useless 
invalids,  and  a  party,  of  which  my  brother  was  one— 
an  entire  detachment,  I  think — was  shipped  back  to 
England,  on  the  condition,  he  said,  of  signing  a 
receipt  for  the  pay  they  had  never  received !  The 
threadbare  uniform  in  which  my  brother  stood 
was  all  the  clothing  he  had  with  him.  It  was 
thoughtful  of  him  not  to  present  himself  to  his 
mother  in  the  plight  in  which  I  beheld  him,  and 
generous  of  our  kind  uncle  to  shelter  him.  Of 
course,  a  few  hours  sufficed  to  re-establish  him 
among  us,  and  it  was  surprising  how  speedily  whole- 
some living,  acting  on  youth  and  a  magnificent 
constitution,  restored  him  to  health,  though  perhaps 
he  never  quite  recovered  his  early  vigour.  Sub- 
sequently he  went  to  India  in  a  mercantile  capacity, 
formed  a  partnership  with  another  young  Englishman, 
a  cousin  of  Martin  Tupper's,  as  an  up-country  trader 
— still  seeking  a  life  of  adventure — but  died  before 
he  was  thirty  years  of  age. 


64  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

I  have  said  that  in  the  reign  of  William  the  Fourth 
the  pleasure-loving  era  among  the  masses  set  in  ;  but 
among  what  is  now  called  the  upper  middle-class 
a  change  of  opinion  was  brooding  which  has  had 
momentous  results.  In  the  early  "  thirties  "  there 
still  lingered  a  strong  objection  to  a  gentlewoman, 
if  unblessed  with  fortune,  maintaining  herself  even 
by  tuition  ;  and  becoming  a  governess,  although  of  a 
very  high  grade,  was  thought  to  compromise  her 
position  in  society.  I  grieve  to  think  that  something 
of  the  same  feeling  still  prevails,  but  it  is  weak  and 
evanescent  compared  with  the  rank  prejudice  which 
then  existed.  If  a  woman  possessed  literary  ability 
she  might  write  books  and  so  obtain  money,  but 
there  was  a  by-law  which  made  her  understand  that 
she  did  so  at  the  risk  of  being  ridiculed  and  despised 
by  the  other  sex.  I  recollect  that  in  1833  a  pur- 
chase was  made  at  a  charity  bazaar  of  two  little 
sealed  packets  labelled  respectively,  "A  Lady's 
Horror"  and  "a  Gentleman's  Horror."  They  only 
contained  the  shape  of  a  stocking,  one  cut  in  black 
paper  and  called  "A  Black  Leg,"  and  the  other  in 
blue  inscribed  "  A  Blue  Stocking." 

One  other  pursuit  there  was  sometimes  open  to 
the  class  I  have  named,  but  which  was  only  a  degree 
less  compromising  than  being  a  governess,  and  this 
was  portrait-painting,  usually  miniature  painting  on 
ivory.  This  lovely  art,  now  nearly  superseded  by 
photography,  had  one  cruel  drawback,  for  a  few  years' 


STRUGGLING   GENTLEWOMEN.  65 

practice  of  it  usually  ruined  the  sight,  if  it  did  not 
produce  ultimate  blindness. 

Of  course,  when  there  were  so  few  openings  for 
impoverished  gentlewomen,  a  different  tone  of  feeling 
prevailed  among  male  relatives  from  that  which  exists 
at  the  present  day.  They  did  not  altogether  admire 
independence  of  character  in  women,  and  felt,  for  the 
most  part,  that  there  would  be  shame  in  brothers,  or 
even  more  distant  relatives,  allowing  the  sister  or 
niece  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  unarmed  for  the  con- 
flict, as  they  considered  her  to  be. 

Personally,  I  have  never  belonged  to,  or  much 
admired,  what  is  called,  the  "shrieking  sisterhood," 
yet  I  confess  that  we  weaker  women  owe  much  to 
their  untiring  struggles  and  vehement  protests. 
Portionless  girls  of  the  present  day  cannot,  I  think, 
easily  realize  the  condition  of  women  similarly  cir- 
cumstanced at  the  time  of  which  I  am  telling.  They 
were  in  the  swaddling-clothes  of  ignorant  prejudice, 
which  there  was  seldom  a  hand  ready  to  loosen. 
Accomplishments  were  thought  all  in  all,  especially 
music,  which  was  often  quite  neglected  after  marriage  ; 
and  a  girl's  reading  was  generally  so  circumscribed 
that  she  had  small  chance  of  mental  development, 
unless  the  home  library  were  far  more  extensive  than 
that  which  was  usually  found  in  a  middle-class 
family.  In  those  days  lending  libraries  seldom  sup- 
plied anything  beyond  new  novels,  and  though  some 
of  these  have  survived  to  become  classics,  a  mental 

F 


66  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

diet  composed  wholly  of  fiction,  however  excellent, 
is  not  nourishing. 

I  think  it  was  Professor  Craik  who  said  in  one  of 
his  essays  that  with  women  the  pursuit  of  know- 
ledge was  always  "under  difficulties."  And  I  am 
very  sure  that  when  he  wrote,  and  in  the  long  ago 
that  I  remember,  it  was  literally  true.  Of  course 
there  were  a  few,  but  I  fear  a  very  few,  grand  excep- 
tions ;  but,  as  a  rule,  when  girls  had  left  school  they 
were  thought  to  be  wasting  time  if  seen  reading. 
They  were  allowed  to  spend  their  superfluous  energy 
in  fancy  work,  and  ridiculous  wax-flower  making, 
without  molestation  ;  but  "  put  down  your  book," 
and  "  don't  waste  your  time  that  way,"  were  common 
expressions.  I  do  not  say  this  was  the  case  in  my 
own  home,  but  I  witnessed  it  where  I  visited. 

Yet  the  very  parents  who  grudged  their  girls  the 
mental  development  of  a  book,  thought  it  no  waste 
of  time  for  them  to  spend  two  or  three  hours  a  day 
at  the  piano.  Of  course  it  is  rank  heresy  to  breathe 
a  word  against  music,  the  youngest  of  the  arts,  but 
the  least  thought-inspiring — music  that  "  soothes  the 
savage  breast,"  etc. ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
the  cultivation  of  music  is  one  of  those  things  which 
should  be  kept  within  due  limits.  Where  there  is 
great  natural  ability,  aid  its  development  if  you  will, 
but  to  warp  the  mind  away  from  nobler  studies  for 
the  sake  of  cultivating  music  is  often  a  cruelty. 
Unless  music,  which  always  appeals  to  the  feelings,  is 


MUSEUM  READING-ROOM.  67 

consecrated  to  the  highest  services,  or  fully  balanced 
by  severer  studies,  it  may  have  a  very  enervating 
influence.  Some  little  proficiency  in  it  is  often  made 
the  excuse  for  many  mental  deficiencies  and  for 
indulgence  in  frivolous  pleasures.  Indeed  the  fruits 
of  over-cultivation  of  music  are  now  apparent.  Our 
housemaids  take  sixpenny  lessons  on  the  piano,  and 
think  themselves  "young  ladies,"  on  the  strength  of 
playing  a  [few  tunes  badly,  and  singing  love-lorn 
ditties  ;  and  music  halls  are  acknowledged  to  have 
too  often  a  demoralizing  influence.  Music  is  very 
seductive,  it  is  apt  to  beguile  the  mind  from  sterner 
occupations,  and  has  the  refrain  of  "Fly  not  yet" 
about  it  in  the  haunts  of  pleasure.  It  may  be  that 
the  national  character  wants  invigorating  rather  than 
"  soothing,"  and  if  mean  music  were  less  cultivated, 
perhaps  the  influence  of  the  higher  soul-inspiring 
sort  might  more  prevail. 

My  dear  brother  H.  died  in  1838;  and  it  was  a 
year  or  two  after  that  event  that  I  became  a  reader 
at  the  British  Museum.  I  should  like  to  describe 
the  old  reading-room  as  it  was  in  those  days.  The 
entrance  was  by  a  very  unpretending  gateway  in 
Montagu  Place,  a  street  leading  out  of  Russell  Square. 
It  was  a  long  room,  with  a  slight  odour  of  Russian 
leather,  as  massive  volumes  were  arranged  all  round, 
many  of  which  must  have  been  bound  in  that  delight- 
ful style.  A  sort  of  counter  at  the  end  of  the  room 
separated  it  from  a  portion  of  the  vast  library,  which 


68  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

could  be  seen  at  intervals  when  any  of  the  officials 
lifted  the  curtain  hung  across  an  opening  behind  the 
counter.  On  each  side  of  the  room  were  large 
leather-covered  tables  with  substantial  reading-desks, 
and  inkstands  well  filled  with  always  limpid  ink,  and 
delightful  quill  pens  of  a  very  large  size,  were  pro- 
vided, as  well  as  comfortable  chairs.  So  few  were 
the  readers,  that  though  each  table  might  have 
accommodated  three  or  four  persons,  even  if  each 
had  a  heap  of  books  before  him,  I  think  it  was 
only  on  one  occasion  that  I  failed  to  have  a  table 
to  myself.  Lady  readers  were  so  much  in  the 
minority  that  I  do  not  remember  ever  seeing  more 
than  two  or  three  besides  myself.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  minority  which  rendered  the  officials  so  obliging 
to  us.  Especially  I  call  to  mind  one  gentleman, 
named  Marshall,  I  was  told,  who  was  the  Keeper 
of  the  Manuscripts.  He  was  often  of  the  greatest 
service  to  me.  From  the  books  for  which  I  asked, 
he  must  have  judged  that  I  was  reading  up  for 
some  special  object,  and  when  he  found  what  that 
object  was,  he  put  me  on  the  track  by  mentioning 
works  of  which  I  had  never  heard.  He  must  have 
been  wonderfully  erudite,  for  I  believe  he  did  the 
same  for  many  other  readers.  He  seemed  to  know 
instinctively  where  any  particular  information  was  to 
be  gained.  Often  "  my  table  "  was  loaded  with  more 
books  than  I  could  consult  in  the  day,  and  then  he 
would  kindly  inquire  which  I  would  like  put  away  for 


THE  MUSEUM  READING-ROOM.  69 

my  next  visit,  without  my  incurring  the  delay  of  a  fresh 
looking  out.  There  was  some  convenient  receptacle 
under  the  counter  into  which  he  put  them.  Among 
the  books  into  which  I  dived  was  a  certain  folio 
Holinshed,  remarkable  from  the  fact  that  some 
Shakespearian  student  had  underlined  the  numerous 
passages  to  which  the  great  dramatist  had  been  in- 
debted in  several  of  his  historical  plays.  Quite 
wonderful  was  it  to  observe  how  often  the  mere 
transposition  of  a  word  converted  the  graphic  prose 
of  the  old  writer  into  Shakespeare's  sonorous  blank 
verse.  Long  paragraphs  were  there,  replete  with 
phrases  that  are  household  words  from  the  plays  in 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  find  them. 

Alas !  after  a  month  or  two's  devotion  to  the 
Museum,  I  had  to  give  up  my  self-appointed  task, 
finding  that  it  would  occupy  years  properly  to  ac- 
complish, instead  of  the  few  months  which  alone  I 
could  have  devoted  to  it.  But  those  days  spent  in 
the  old  reading-room  are  pleasant  spots  in  my 
memory.  The  steady,  sufficient,  but  not  glaring 
light — the  silence  only  broken  by  an  occasional 
whisper  or  the  sound  of  the  little  waggons  that 
brought  in  heavy  books,  made  it  conducive  to  earnest 
study  ;  and,  indeed,  I  think  only  real  students  used 
the  national  library  in  those  days. 

Some  years  later  I  had  occasion  a  few  times  to 
visit  a  new  reading-room — not  the  present  one,  which 
I  have  never  seen — and  I  confess  the  contrast  jarred 


70  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

upon  me.  It  was  a  great  room  that  seemed  garish, 
from  the  blazing  sunshine  which  pervaded  almost 
every  corner.  There  were  many  tables,  most  of 
them  crowded,  but  some  of  the  readers  lounged,  in 
a  manner  I  had  never  seen  in  the  old  room — and 
many  were  restless,  and  looked  tired  from  standing 
over  the  great  catalogues.  There  was  no  substitute 
for  the  courteous  Mr.  Marshall ;  and  the  subordinate 
officials  seemed  harassed  and  overworked.  There 
were  plenty  of  lady  readers  by  1850.  I  suppose 
there  are  people  "  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made," 
who  can  think  in  a  strong  sunlight ;  but,  for  myself, 
I  now  understood  what  was  meant  by  a  "Museum 
headache,"  and  when  I  had  obtained  the  historical 
information  I  was  then  seeking,  I  took  my  leave  of 
the  reading-room  with  a  dim  foreshadowing  that  it 
would  be  for  ever. 

I  may  mention  an  incident  which  occurred  in  1841, 
and  which  impressed  itself  on  my  mind,  probably 
because  it  had  cognate  bearing  on  the  subject  for 
which  I  was  reading  in  my  earliest  visits  to  the 
Museum.  I  met,  several  times  in  society,  a  lineal 
descendant  of  a  brother  of  Jane  Lane,  the  heroine 
who  assisted  Charles  the  Second  in  his  escape 
after  the  battle  of  Worcester,  and  heard  from  his 
lips  some  details  which  are  not  recorded  in  any 
of  the  histories  of  the  period  with  which  I  have 
met,  and  perhaps  may  be  new  to  some  of  my 
readers. 


THE  LANE  FAMILY.  71 

It  is  well  known  that  the  fugitive  king  was  dis- 
guised as  a  servant,  and  that  Mistress  Jane  Lane 
rode  on  a  pillion  behind  him,  acting  her  part  so  well 
that  his  identity  was  unsuspected.  But  Mr.  Lane 
told  me  that  at  the  end  of  the  long  and  perilous  ride 
the  king  asked  his  companion  what  he  could  do  to 
requite  the  service  she  had  rendered  him. 

"Let  us  use  (or  quarter)  the  Royal  Arms,"  she 
promptly  replied. 

"  Nay,"  returned  Charles,  "  I  cannot  do  that ;  but 
you  shall  assume  a  portion  of  them." 

I  am  not  sure  which  was  the  word  mentioned,  "  use  " 
or  "  quarter,"  but  after  telling  me  of  the  above  incident, 
Mr.  Lane  gave  me  an  impression  from  the  seal  he 
was  wearing.  Unfortunately,  in  the  course  of  time, 
the  wax  got  crushed  and  broken ;  but  I  am  nearly 
sure  that  the  portion  of  the  Royal  Arms  assumed 
consisted  of  the  three  lions  on  the  sinister  side  of 
the  shield ;  and  I  distinctly  remember  that  the  crest 
was  a  horse's  head  and  fore  legs,  with  the  hoofs 
holding  a  crown,  the  motto  being  Garde  le  Roi. 
Jane  Lane  was  a  single  woman,  of  about  eight  or 
nine  and  twenty,  at  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Worcester, 
though  she  married  subsequently.  No  doubt  books 
of  heraldry  give  the  Lane  arms,  though  probably 
without  mentioning  their  origin.* 

*  When  I  saw  that  Jane  Lane  was  to  be  included  in  the  "  Dictionary 
of  National  Biography,"  I  sent  these  particulars  to  the  editors  of  that 
work.  My  communication  was  politely  acknowledged,  though  whether 
it  afforded  information  not  already  possessed  I  do  not  know. 


72  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

Assuredly  the  most  memorable  event  of  the 
"  thirties "  was  the  accession  of  our  beloved  Queen. 
Of  course  the  nation  had  watched  the  career  of  the 
young  princess,  though  without  much  knowledge  of 
the  privacy  of  her  life.  And  yet  there  was  an  in- 
stinctive admiration  for  her  mother,  the  Duchess  of 
Kent,  and  the  wise  manner  in  which  she  had  guarded 
and  guided  the  heiress-presumptive  to  the  throne. 
Little  anecdotes  of  the  thoughtful  kindness  of  the 
young  princess  did  ooze  out,  and  if  sometimes  they 
were  only  ben  trovato,  they  had  their  value  for  all 
that ;  since  a  ben  trovato  anecdote  of  a  distinguished 
personage  generally  only  mirrors  a  truth.  "On  ne 
prete  qu'aux  riches,"  said  a  shrewd  Frenchman. 

Little  did  I  think  when  I  first  heard  the  Queen 
prayed  for  on  Sunday,  June  25,  1837,  that  I  should 
live  to  witness  her  glorious  jubilee,  and  lay  before 
her  the  tribute  which  I  am  tempted  to  reproduce 
here. 

We,  who  in  years  long  fled  remember  well 

Her  youthful  maiden  bloom  and  rose-crowned  brow, 

Where  regal  jewels  early  learned  to  glow, 
Claim  as  a  right  the  choral  song  to  swell 
Of  jubilant  thanksgiving  !    There  doth  dwell 

In  Memory's  hallowed  chambers  a  great  show 

Of  trials  past,  of  glory  and  of  woe 
Borne  royally,  as  England's  records  tell. 
The  reaper  Death  has  mowed  our  ranks  among 

Until  we  are  but  few ;  and  it  may  be 
Our  voices  scarce  are  heard  amid  the  throng 

Of  younger  minstrels  piping  full  of  glee, 
Yet  our  Te  Deum  mingles  with  the  song, 

Its  solemn  notes  that  ring  of  memory  ! 


QUEEN  VICTORIA.  73 

We,  who  can  recollect  the  child  Princess 

So  full  of  promise,  amply  justified, 

Are  stirr'd  more  deeply  as  the  long  years  glide, 
Though  we  but  murmur  low  "  May  God  Her  bless, 
And  spare  Her  for  Her  people's  happiness," 

Than  those  still  sailing  upon  Life's  flood-tide 

Whose  clarion  notes  proclaim  their  love  and  pride 
From  shore  to  shore  with  hearty  eagerness. 
Victoria  !  writ  large  in  lines  of  light, 

The  name  through  coming  ages  will  remain 
In  foremost  rank  with  those  great  few,  that  blight 

Ne'er  tarnished,  shining  on  without  a  stain  ; 
A  victor  warrior  fighting  "the  good  fight," 

'Mid  perils  and  temptations  for  our  gain. 


74  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  brothers  Chambers— The  "  forties  "•— "  Delta  "—The 
sister  of  Burns. 

IT  was  in  the  spring  of  1841  that  I  first  addressed 
Messrs.  Chambers  of  Edinburgh,  sending  them  a 
prose  article  and  a  poem,  which  were  promptly  in- 
serted in  their  Joiirnal ;  and  very  soon  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  feeling  myself  an  acceptable  contributor. 
When  the  brothers  came  to  London  they  called  upon 
me,  introducing  me  to  their  wives,  and  what  began 
in  a  purely  business  acquaintanceship  soon  ripened 
into  a  warm  and  lifelong  friendship.  Seldom,  I 
think,  have  two  brothers  done  so  much  good  in  the 
world  as  the  brothers  William  and  Robert  Chambers  ; 
and  it  is  because  I  knew  them  so  well  and  for  so 
long  a  period,  that  I  feel  justified  in  writing  about 
them  at  some  length. 

In  the  year  1845  I  spent  nearly  two  months  in 
Scotland,  being  a  guest  in  either  one  family  or  the 
other  the  whole  time ;  but  I  already  knew  my  hosts 
intimately  from  having  seen  them  frequently  in 
London,  and  thus  at  once  felt  I  was  visiting  friends. 


WILLIAM  AND  ROBERT  CHAMBERS.  75 

Still  what  is  called  "  staying  with  people  "  makes  us 
more  thoroughly  acquainted  with  them  than  any 
other  form  of  visiting  can  do.  In  my  case  I  found 
my  first  impressions  but  confirmed  and  widened. 
Not  only  apparently,  but  from  more  than  one  assur- 
ance of  the  fact,  I  know  that  the  brothers  worked 
together  most  harmoniously,  and  yet  I  think  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  two  men  of  more  opposite  cha- 
racters. To  be  sure,  both  were  true  and  just  and 
energetic,  with  a  high  standard  of  morals  and  duty ; 
but  the  elder  brother,  William,  was  far  narrower  in 
his  sympathies,  and  far  more  rigid  in  his  prejudices 
than  Robert.  I  am  afraid  the  elder  was  nearly 
pitiless  to  people  who  had  brought  their  misfortunes 
on  themselves  by  extravagance  or  even  imprudence. 
Had  he  been  a  Pagan,  I  think  he  would  have  dedi- 
cated a  temple  to  Thrift  and  worshipped  in  it.  As 
in  his  autobiography  he  has  related  the  early  struggles 
of  his  family,  it  can  be  no  breach  of  confidence  for 
me  to  allude  to  them. 

In  the  summer  of  1845,  William  Chambers  had  a 
little  house  at  Peebles,  whither  he  and  his  wife 
occasionally  went  for  a  short  interval,  driving  from 
their  Edinburgh  home  in  their  own  carriage.  Thither 
they  took  me  for  a  three  days'  sojourn  in  lovely  July 
weather.  It  was  in  the  drive  to  Peebles  that  we 
passed  by  the  Lammermoor,  and  its  weird  and 
desolate  appearance  impressed  me  greatly.  The 
imagination  of  genius  is  fired  sometimes  by  trifling 


76  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

incidents,  and  I  can  understand  that  the  aspect  of 
that  moor  may  have  suggested  to  Scott  the  tragic 
story,  which  to  my  mind  remains  his  masterpiece. 
It  was  a  quaint  little  dwelling  we  occupied,  where  I 
had  the  experience — and  did  not  like  it — of  sleeping 
in  a  recess  in  the  old-fashioned  Scotch  manner. 
Also  the  window  of  my  room  was  of  so  primitive 
a  character  that  it  had  to  be  propped  open  with  a 
piece  of  wood.  Nevertheless  the  time  passed  very 
pleasantly,  filling  my  mind  with  new  ideas. 

It  must  have  been  while  we  were  at  Peebles  that 
I  was  taken  to  see  the  hut  of  the  unhappy  deformed 
creature  whose  character  and  appearance  had  sug- 
gested his  "Black  Dwarf"  to  Scott.  Nearly  all 
readers  of  that  powerful  romance  are,  I  suppose, 
aware  of  the  true  story  of  the  crippled  and  in  many 
ways  misshapen  man  who  thus  kindled  the  sympathy 
and  imagination  of  the  great  author.  Scarcely  three 
feet  and  a  half  high,  with  a  ponderous  head  and  an 
active  brain,  maddened  by  the  taunts  and  jeers  of 
the  thoughtless  and  the  cruel,  he  determined  to 
build  for  himself  a  moorland  dwelling  far  away  from 
the  haunts  of  man.  I  imagine  this  cave-like  shelter 
is  still  preserved  as  a  show-place  to  tourists.  As  I 
saw  it  in  1845  it  more  resembled  the  lair  of  a  savage 
beast  than  the  home  of  a  human  being.  This  David 
Ritchie  too,  though  poor,  was  a  man  of  some  culture, 
since  he  delighted  in  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and 
also  admired  Shenstone's  pastorals. 


THE  BLACK  DWARFS  HOVEL.  77 

The  hut,  low-roofed  and  very  small,  was  composed 
entirely  of  stones  roughly  put  together.  To  the  best 
of  my  recollection  there  was  no  flooring  but  the  bare, 
hardened  earth,  which  seemed  undulating  to  the  tread  ; 
but  there  was  an  attempt  at  producing  what  the 
Scotch  call  a  "  butt  and  a  ben  "  !  The  little  inner 
compartment,  however,  was  hardly  large  enough  to 
hold  a  comfortable  bed,  and  I  think  it  had  not  any 
door.  The  small  garden  had  been  walled  round,  for 
the  poor  solitary  loved  his  garden,  and  made  a  little 
money  out  of  it,  but  hated  being  looked  at.  Not  that 
he  refused  help  when  it  was  offered  to  him — some- 
thing I  suspect  he  felt  as  if  he  were  "spoiling  the 
Egyptians."  His  companions  were  a  dog  and  a  cat, 
and  he  kept  bees,  which  were  profitable.  When  I  saw 
the  hut  it  was  entirely  empty,  and  the  neglected 
garden — no  doubt  purposely  neglected  to  render  the 
show-place  more  picturesque  and  pathetic — instantly 
recalled  to  my  mind  a  beautiful  passage  in  Goldsmith's 
"  Deserted  Village  "— 

"  Where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild." 

Generally  everything  seemed  choked  and  crushed 
for  want  of  pruning  and  cutting  away,  but  amid  a 
briery  tangle  there  had  struggled  forward,  as  if 
towards  light  and  warmth,  a  blooming  white  rose 
which  I  obtained  permission  to  appropriate.  Dried 
and  withered  I  know  I  kept  it  for  years,  but  length 


73  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

of  days   shows   us    how   few   things   are   quite   im- 
perishable ! 

Peebles  was  the  birthplace  of  the  brothers  Cham- 
bers, and  I  was  shown  over  the  house  in  which  they 
were  born.  Also  I  was  taken  to  the  churchyard  to 
read  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombs  of  their  forefathers. 
For  many  years  they  had  been  burghers  of  good 
repute,  honoured  and  esteemed  in  the  town,  but  the 
father  of  the  brothers  Chambers  fell  into  difficulties 
from  trusting  the  French  prisoners  of  war  in  the 
neighbourhood  to  the  amount,  I  think,  of  two  or  three 
thousand  pounds.  Hence  the  migration  of  the  family 
to  the  neighbourhood  of  Edinburgh,  when  the  elder 
son  was  twelve  years  old.  Certainly  several  genera- 
tions of  blameless  ancestry  must  be  an  honour  to  any 
one,  and  in  that  sense  the  Chambers  were  well  born  ; 
but,  while  some  other  members  of  the  family  spoke 
only  vaguely  of  what  they  called  the  "  dark  ages," 
William  Chambers  liked,  I  think,  to  dilate  on  the  early 
struggles,  though,  I  suppose,  only  to  a  sympathetic 
listener,  which  I  certainly  was.  He  told  me  that 
when  a  mere  boy  in  a  bookseller's  employ  he  lived  on 
a  very  few  shillings  a  week,  saving  money  enough  out 
of  that  sum  to  buy  a  printing  machine ;  and,  when 
driving  through  Edinburgh,  he  often  indicated  spots 
associated  with  those  early  years.  I  remember  his 
pointing  out  a  doorstep,  saying,  "  Look  at  that,  I  will 
tell  you  something  about  it  presently ; "  and  to  a 
certain  house  he  pointed  in  a  similar  manner.  Then 


WILLIAM  CHAMBERS.  79 

he  told  me  he  had  sat  crying  on  that  doorstep  because 
he  had  lost  a  penny,  not  his  own,  and  some  kind  old 
gentleman,  seeing  his  distress,  had  questioned  him  and 
given  him  a  penny.  He  had  taken  a  parcel  to  the 
house  he  indicated,  with  instructions  to  wait  for  an 
answer,  and  while  he  waited  the  cook  gave  him  an 
ample  dinner  to  beguile  the  time.  In  one  of  his 
published  reminiscences  he  alludes  to  the  trivial  sum 
that  had  been  paid  for  his  education — something  con- 
siderably under  ten  pounds — and  how  he  had  taught 
himself  to  read  French  with  the  help  of  taking  a 
French  Testament  to  kirk  to  follow  the  English 
reading. 

It  must  have  been  these  early  recollections  which 
made  him,  when  a  rich  man,  severe  in  his  judgment 
on  all  those  who  failed  to  live  within  their  means, 
whatever  those  means  might  be  ;  but  that  he  had 
deep  feelings,  though  seldom  displayed,  beneath  his 
cold  manners  there  is  no  doubt.  There  was  one 
anecdote,  the  memory  of  which  touches  me  to  this 
day.  When  the  humble  shop-boy  he  had  a  Christmas 
or  New  Year's  present  made  him  of  half  a  guinea  ; 
it  was  a  cold  winter's  evening,  and  his  parents  lived 
four  or  five  miles  out  of  Edinburgh,  but  knowing 
their  pressing  needs,  and  eager  to  bestow  his  treasure 
on  his  beloved  mother,  he  set  off  to  do  so.  He  found 
the  home  fireless  and  dark  ;  the  little  family  were  all 
in  bed  ;  but  he  obtained  admission,  and  made  his  way 
through  the  darkness  to  his  mother's  bedside ;  then 


8o  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

he  told  her  of  his  good  fortune,  putting  the  coin 
into  her  hands.  With  emotion  he  described  how  she 
placed  her  hand  on  his  head  and  solemnly  blessed 
him.  He  trudged  back  to  Edinburgh  without  break- 
fast, after  a  few  hours  of  rest.  I  think  he  firmly 
believed  that  that  blessing  was  heard,  and  had  to 
do  with  his  future  prosperity. 

And  yet — such  a  contradiction  is  there  in  human 
nature — this  man,  who  looked  back  on  the  gift  of  that 
half-guinea  as  one  of  the  joys  of  his  life,  had  the 
greatest  objection  to  any  one  offering  the  poor  un- 
earned money.  He  took  me  to  task  for  giving  a 
cottager's  little  child  a  fourpenny-piece ;  not  out  of 
consideration  for  my  purse,  but  because  he  maintained 
that  such  practices  demoralized  people.  He  was  all 
for  helping  people  to  help  themselves,  and  this  he  was 
often  enough  ready  to  do.  Though  I  came  to  Edin- 
burgh ostensibly  for  recreation  and  sight-seeing,  he 
thought  it  highly  desirable  that  I  still  should  be 
earning  money.  A  quiet  room  was  set  apart  for  my 
use,  and  I  was  quite  expected  to  ply  my  pen  from 
after  the  eight-o'clock  breakfast  till  twelve  o'clock  or 
half-past.  I  liked  the  arrangement  immensely,  for  I 
had  plenty  on  my  mind  to  do ;  but  the  fact  was  my 
host  supplied  me  in  a  great  measure  with  literary 
work,  suggesting  this  and  that  I  should  write  for  the 
Journal  or  other  publications.  For  instance,  on  one 
occasion  he  brought  me  the  proof-sheets  of  one  of 
the  Miscellany  of  Tracts  they  were  then  publishing, 


WILLIAM  CHAMBERS.  81 

but  which  proved  to  be  five  pages  short  of  the  thirty- 
two  required.  It  was  a  story,  and  he  suggested  that 
I  should  look  it  through,  and  by  inventing  additional 
incidents,  or  by  other  means,  bring  it  to  the  required 
length.  I  was  a  little  dismayed,  but,  as  the  story  was 
to  appear  anonymously,  I  thought  the  author — who 
turned  out  to  be  my  friend,  Dinah  Mulock — would 
not  be  much  injured.  So  I  set  to  work,  studied  the 
thing  one  day,  and  the  next  added  the  five  pages 
necessary  by  putting  in  additional  paragraphs  or 
sentences  here  and  there.  Thus  I  earned  a  couple  of 
guineas,  and  in  the  course  of  the  five  or  six  weeks 
I  stayed  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Chambers,  I 
acquired,  by  various  little  articles  or  literary  patch- 
work, much  more  than  paid  my  expenses  to  and 
from  Edinburgh.  I  relate  this  incident  to  show  the 
manner  in  which  William  Chambers  liked  to  serve 
one  whom  he  considered  rather  as  a  protegee. 

In  that  household  everything  passed  off  with  the 
utmost  regularity  and  precision,  a  state  of  things 
to  which  I  could  always  pleasantly  accommodate 
myself.  At  one  o'clock  the  carriage  was  ordered, 
and  Mrs.  Chambers  and  I,  after  a  slice  of  cake  and 
a  glass  of  wine,  drove  to  the  publishing  place  of 
business  in  the  High  Street  to  pick  up  her  husband. 
Usually  we  got  out  for  a  while — perhaps  he  was  not 
quite  ready,  perhaps  there  was  something  to  show 
me — then  we  went  sight-seeing  till  close  upon  four 
o'clock,  the  dinner  hour.  Of  course  I  was  taken  to 

G 


82  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

see  Holyrood,  with  all  its  memories  of  the  unhappy 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  I  should,  however,  have  been 
but  little  instructed  had  I  only  depended  on  the 
explanations  of  the  established  guide.  This  was 
a  voluble  woman  ;  but  she  spoke  such  broad  Scotch 
that  I  did  not  understand  a  single  word  she  said. 
I  have  little  doubt  that  William  Chambers  knew  as 
much  about  Holyrood  as  she  could  tell;  but  he 
appealed  to  her  frequently,  speaking  in  exactly  the 
same  manner  as  she  did,  then  he  would  turn  to  me 
interpreting !  I  was  astonished,  wondering  if  this 
broad  Scotch  could  have  been  the  "  mother  tongue  " 
of  my  host,  for  both  he  and  his  brother  spoke 
English  with  great  accuracy,  and  only  the  little 
"flavour"  which  proclaimed  their  nationality. 

The  dinner  was  always  simple  but  excellent,  and 
it  left  us  a  long  evening  for  conversation,  or  reading, 
or  needlework.  Tea  was  brought  to  the  drawing- 
room,  but  we  returned  to  the  dining-room  at  ten 
o'clock  for  a  light  supper,  for  several  weeks  chiefly 
composed  of  strawberries  and  cream.  I  found  the 
Scotch  custom  was  to  shred  the  strawberries  from 
their  tiny  stalks  and  serve  them  in  a  tureen,  to  be 
helped  with  a  soup  ladle  in  ample  quantities.  Instead 
of  dessert  plates  soup  plates  were  used,  and  a  large 
jug  of  cream  was  always  placed  on  the  table.  I 
quite  understood  the  approbation  of  the  schoolboy 
who  exclaimed,  "  This  is  the  place  for  strawberries  ; 
soup  plates,  and  come  twice." 


WILLIAM  CHAMBERS.  83 

This  was  the  simple  mode  of  living  of  the  elder 
brother  and  his  wife,  at  whose  invitation  it  was  that 
I  went  to  Edinburgh,  and  passed  several  weeks 
under  their  roof.  Already  presumably  a  rich  man, 
Mr.  Chambers  was  destined  to  be  the  founder  of  the 
Chambers's  Literary  Institute,  at  Peebles,  which  he 
also  endowed,  and  to  be  the  restorer  of  St.  Giles's 
Cathedral,  in  Edinburgh,  besides  retaining  a  noble 
fortune.  The  poor  boy,  who  had  worked  his  way 
up  to  honours  and  wealth,  in  later  years  became 
Lord  Provost  of  Edinburgh,  and  died  at  the  age 
of  eighty-three,  when  just  about  to  assume  the 
dignity  of  a  baronet,  the  patent  being  made  out. 

Knowing  him  and  his  wife  as  well  as  I  did,  I 
have  sometimes  wondered  with  what  feelings  they 
went  through  the  duties  and  ceremonies  of  the  Lord 
Provost's  office.  They  seemed  to  me  to  absolutely 
dislike  what  is  called  "  society ; "  and  I  do  not 
remember  more  than  one  or  two  callers  while  I  was 
with  them,  or  a  single  guest  at  dinner.  To  me  they 
were  all  kindness,  showing  me  all  they  could  think 
of  that  would  interest  me,  not  only  in  Edinburgh, 
but  taking  me  to  Abbotsford,  Dalkeith,  etc.,  and,  on 
my  way  home,  seeing  me  to  Greenock  by  the  route 
of  the  Trosachs,  Loch  Katrine,  Loch  Lomond,  and 
Glasgow. 

It  must  be  worth  while  to  contrast  the  Loch 
Katrine  of  those  days  with  its  troubled  waters  of  the 
present  time.  We  slept  at  Callander,  and  rose  at  five 


84  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

in  the  morning,  so  as  to  reach  the  shores  of  the  lake 
by  eight  o'clock.  There  we  embarked  in  a  wherry 
rowed  by  two  Highlanders,  who  to  each  other  spoke 
Gaelic,  but  to  us  English,  as  if  it  were  a  foreign 
language  acquired  with  some  difficulty,  and  of  which 
they  possessed  but  a  limited  vocabulary.  Their 
speech  had  but  the  merest  trace  of  what  we  call 
Scotch  accent.  But  facing  the  rowers  for,  I  should 
think,  a  couple  of  hours,  I  observed  their  counte- 
nances, and  noted  how  little  labial  the  Gaelic  was. 
They  talked  often  to  each  other,  but  I  think  the 
upper  and  lower  lips  never  met.  When  we  reached 
"Ellen's  Isle"  and  other  points  of  interest  they 
indicated  them  in  good  set  English  phrases,  I  hear 
that  now  Loch  Katrine  is  ploughed  by  steamboats. 
On  the  summer  morning  of  which  I  am  writing  the 
water  was  crystal-clear,  refracting  the  oars,  and  we 
saw  but  two  wherries  besides  our  own,  and  a  solitary 
angler  on  the  shore. 

But  this  was  towards  the  end  of  my  visit,  and 
there  was  an  interregnum  of  about  ten  days,  during 
which  I  visited  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  Chambers. 
Just  then  their  house  in  Edinburgh  was  undergoing 
repairs,  and  they  occupied  a  commodious  dwelling  at 
Musselburgh,  about  five  miles  from  the  town.  In 
depicting  the  different  home-lives  of  the  two  brothers, 
I  hope  to  indicate  the  different  characters  of  them- 
selves and  their  wives. 

Without    being   at    all    a    disorderly   house,   the 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS.  85 

younger  brother's  establishment  had  a  little  touch 
of  the  Liberty  Hall  about  it.  In  the  first  place,  the 
breakfast  hour  was  nearer  nine  than  eight;  and, 
though  those  who  were  the  first  of  a  large  party 
to  assemble  might  have  the  hottest  tea  or  coffee,  the 
late  comer  would,  at  any  rate,  not  experience  the 
keen  reproach  of  having  been  waited  for.  It  was 
the  same  at  luncheon — a  substantial  meal  between 
one  and  two  o'clock.  The  dinner  hour  must,  I  think, 
have  been  six.  My  host  was  usually,  but  not  always, 
away  in  Edinburgh  the  greater  part  of  the  day; 
but  there  was  always  something  going  on — visitors 
dropping  in,  or  an  excursion  to  be  made,  or  some 
subject  of  interest  to  be  discussed.  Then  there  was 
the  houseful  of  happy,  merry  children,  to  whom 
scolding  seemed  absolutely  unknown,  and  a  charm- 
ing girl-governess,  who  was  treated  like  a  daughter 
of  the  house.  As  for  Mrs.  Robert  Chambers,  she 
was  the  most  genial  of  hostesses,  with  a  sweet  voice 
that  had  music  in  it,  thoughtful  for  others  but  con- 
tented in  herself.  She  told  me  that  throughout  her 
happy  married  life — then  a  period  of  about  sixteen 
years — each  year  had  been  happier  and  more  pros- 
perous than  its  predecessor.  It  is  said  that  to  every 
earthly  paradise  the  serpent  winds  its  way — certainly 
I  never  heard  its  hiss  or  saw  its  crest  during  my  visit 
to  Musselburgh.  I  remember  Robert  Chambers 
alluding  laughingly  to  his  wife's  "  organ  of  benevo- 
lence," and  saying  ^that  "  if  he  were  to  set  her  up 


86  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

in  business  she  must  inevitably  be  a  bankrupt  in  six 
months."  People,  especially  the  Scotch,  more  often 
spoke  "  phrenologically  "  in  those  days  than  they  do 
at  present. 

In  the  evening  we  generally  had  music.  The 
eldest  daughter  was  already  a  fine  pianist,  Mrs. 
Robert  played  the  harp,  and  the  little  girls  sang 
sweetly  in  chorus.  Jacobite  songs  were  greatly  in 
vogue,  but  not  to  the  exclusion  of  "  God  save  the 
Queen,"  and  some  American  ditties  then  newly 
imported. 

One  day  there  was  a  dinner-party  of  ten  or  a 
dozen,  when  a  little  incident  occurred  which  seems 
to  me  worth  recording.  When  staying  in  Edinburgh 
with  the  other  couple  my  attention  had  been  drawn 
to  a  book  recently  published,  which  was  making 
some  noise  in  the  world,  namely,  "  Vestiges  of  the 
Natural  History  of  Creation."  William  Chambers 
had  asked  my  opinion  of  it.  What  opinion  I  gave  I 
can  but  vaguely  remember.  I  am  only  very  sure 
that  I  was  not  capable  of  forming  one.  At  the 
dinner-party,  to  which  I  allude,  among  the  guests 
were  D.  M.  Moir— the  "  Delta "  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine — and  his  wife,  and  Mrs.  Crowe,  the  author 
of  "Susan  Hopley  "  and  "The  Night  Side  of  Nature." 
I  forget  what  other  guests  were  present ;  but  I 
think  it  might  be  called  a  literary  party.  Just  when 
the  fish  was  removed,  the  time  when  tongues  are 
loosened,  "  The  Vestiges "  came  under  discussion. 


u  THE    VESTIGES?  87 

A  quarter  of  lamb  was  set  before  the  master  of  the 
house — for  dinners  a  la  Russe  had  not  yet  been 
introduced — and  he  was  in  the  act  of  separating  the 
shoulder  from  the  ribs  with  the  skilful  dexterity  of 
an  accomplished  carver,  when  some  lady  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  table,  with  singular  impropriety, 
exclaimed — 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Chambers,  some  people  say 
you  wrote  that  book." 

Though  sitting  next  my  host,  I  happened  to  be 
looking  towards  Mrs.  Chambers,  and  I  saw  that  she 
started  in  her  chair  and  that  a  frown  was  on  her  face. 
She  looked  at  her  husband,  but  his  eyes  were  bent  on 
the  lamb,  on  which  Jhe  continued  operating  in  an 
imperturbable  manner,  observing — 

"  I  wonder  how  people  can  suppose  that  I  ever  had 
time  to  write  such  a  book." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  and  then  I  think 
the  subject  dropped. 

I  believe  I  have  never  since  seen  a  quarter  of  lamb 
without  thinking  of  that  dinner  and  Robert  Chambers' s 
evasive  answer.  Now  that  the  book  is  acknowledged 
to  have  been  his,  and  his  wife  is  stated  to  have  been 
the  copyist,  I  can  well  understand  her  start  and  her 
frown.  Wonderfully  well  was  the  secret  kept  for 
nearly  forty  years,  although  rumour  was  rife  in  sug- 
gesting the  author.  For  years  the  work  was  out  of 
print,  high  prices  being  offered  for  a  copy.  But  a 
mighty  change  came  over  the  mind  of  Robert  Cham- 


88  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

bers,  from  circumstances  to  which  I  shall  have  to 
allude  by-and-by — a  change  which  fully  accounted 
for  the  suppression  of  the  book. 

The  "  Delta  "  of  Blackwood's  belonged  to  a  genera- 
tion of  authors  who  have  passed  away,  but  he  made 
his  mark,  and  was  a  most  cultivated  man.  He  was 
a  medical  practitioner  and  a  polished  gentleman ;  I 
felt  it  a  privilege  to  have  known  him. 

In  later  years  I  often  met  Mrs.  Crowe  in  society. 
She  was  an  eccentric  woman,  not  particularly  refined, 
but  at  any  rate  she  had  the  courage  of  her  opinions. 

I  do  not  desire  to  obtrude  personal  details  of  my 
memorable  visit  to  Edinburgh,  yet  I  cannot  describe 
the  difference  between  the  two  brothers  without 
alluding  to  myself.  I  do  not  think  the  younger 
brother  thought  it  altogether  good  for  me  to  have  so 
much  desultory  literary  work  as  circumstances  forced 
upon  me.  He  had  much  more  sympathy  with  the 
struggles  of  authors  than  William  had,  having  himself 
many  more  of  their  idiosyncrasies.  Robert  knew 
perfectly  well  that  for  important  work  great  concen- 
tration of  mind  was  necessary,  and  that  petty  tasks 
are  ruinously  distracting.  He  had  imagination  and 
sympathy,  and  one  of  the  kindest  hearts  in  the  world. 
He  appreciated  everything  that  was  fine  in  poetry 
and  imaginative  literature,  and  though  not  so  rapid 
in  his  judgments  as  his  brother,  the  comparative 
slowness  was  that  of  one  who  looks  all  round  a 
subject  before  coming  to  a  decision.  His  contribu- 


THE  SISTER   OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  89 

tions  to  the  Journal  showed  him  to  be  a  thoughtful 
essayist,  and  his  biographical  and  historical  writings 
proved  how  indefatigable  a  student  he  could  be.  He 
was  a  delightful  companion,  from  whose  conversation 
one  always  gained  ideas. 

William  Chambers  could  also  write  well — but  it 
must  be  on  matters  of  fact.  A  story  only  pleased 
him  if  it  illustrated  some  truth  in  which  he  believed. 
He  had  not  the  least  understanding  of  poetry ;  con- 
fessed that  he  "could  not  see  what  there  was  in 
Shakespeare  to  make  such  a  fuss  about,"  and  thought 
Longfellow's  "  Evangeline  "  "  prose  run  mad."  He 
seemed  to  have  hardly  any  comprehension  of  the 
truths  that  are  greater  than  fact,  and  was,  I  think, 
quite  devoid  of  the  sense  of  humour. 

And  yet,  like  every  Scotchman  I  ever  knew,  he 
thought  very  much  of  Burns,  and  I  was  taken  to 
Ayr  to  see  the  sister  of  the  poet,  Mrs.  Begg,  who 
was  still  surviving.  Of  course  I  saw  also  the  house 
in  which  Burns  was  born,  and  the  different  objects 
associated  with  him,  but  the  living  relic  was  to  me 
the  most  interesting.  She  was  a  handsome,  some- 
what stately  old  woman,  of  between  sixty  and 
seventy,  strikingly  like  the  engraving  of  her  brother's 
portrait  which  hung  over  the  mantelpiece  of  her 
little  parlour.  Her  touch  of  stateliness  was  innate, 
and  corresponded  to  the  easy  good  manners  which 
were  quite  devoid  of  affectation.  I  rather  think 
Robert  Chambers  had  exerted  himself  to  obtain 


90  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

some  small  pension  for  her,  and  she  lived  with  her 
daughter,  a  young  woman  of  about  eight-and-twenty, 
who  was  occupied  as  a  dressmaker.  She  also  re- 
sembled the  poet,  and  had  her  mother's  pleasant 
manners,  with  the  addition  of  more  cheerfulness. 

I  never  could  ascertain  what  quality  it  was  in  the 
poetry  of  Burns  that  William  Chambers  appreciated, 
and  suspect  he  did  not  know  himself.  But  the  fact 
is  that  in  Scotland  Burns  is  "a  name  to  conjure  with." 
The  brothers  must  often  have  differed  in  their  opinions 
on  literary  matters.  Once  I  myself  wrote  a  story  for 
the  Journal,  which  was  accepted  by  Robert  with  words 
of  approbation ;  a  few  days  later  came  a  letter  of 
regret  that  his  brother  did  not  agree  with  him  as 
to  its  suitability  for  the  Journal.  On  another  occasion 
I  pleased  William  with  the  manuscript  I  offered,  while 
his  brother  thought  less  of  it ;  but  note,  this  story 
approved  by  William  appeared  after  all,  while  the 
one  Robert  liked  was  returned  to  me.  The  fact  was 
the  younger  brother  in  trifling  matters  yielded  habitu- 
ally to  the  elder  ;  hence  the  concord  of  their  lives. 

Unquestionably  William  Chambers  loved  power, 
and  I  should  say  would  never  have  got  on  well  with 
relatives  that  thwarted  him.  Perhaps  his  nature 
would  have  been  softened  had  his  children  lived,  or 
had  his  wife  drawn  out  and  encouraged  the  latent 
tenderness  in  his  nature.  But  she  always  seemed  to 
me  the  reflex  of  her  husband.  I  do  not  remember 
ever  seeing  her  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  but  she 


WILLIAM  CHAMBERS.  91 

adopted  all  the  opinions  of  her  lord  and  master,  so 
far  as  I  could  judge,  because  they  were  his,  not  for 
her  own  reasons.  There  are  many  men  who  admire 
this  sort  of  wife  more  than  any  other ;  and,  though 
they  must  be  aware  that  it  is  but  a  parrot-voice  they 
hear,  are  comforted  by  the  sound. 

I  have  alluded  to  the  latent  tenderness  of  William 
Chambers's  nature  ;  that  he  had  it  was  proved  by  his 
love  and  reverence  for  his  mother.  I  think  it  was 
Mrs.  William  Chambers  who  told  me  that  during  the 
illness  which  preceded  her  death,  when  her  sons 
sought  by  every  means  to  assuage  her  sufferings,  she 
almost  rebuked  them  for  extravagance.  The  vener- 
able mother  who  had  suffered  such  straits  in  early 
life  could  not  forget  their  lessons,  or  quite  understand 
the  changed  condition  of  affairs.  Especially  she 
grieved  over  the  cost  of  hothouse  grapes  that  had 
been  provided  for  her.  "Mother,"  exclaimed  her 
son,  "  if  ten  thousand  pounds  could  do  you  good  we 
could  afford  it." 

Also  William  Chambers  was  full  of  pity  and 
tenderness  for  animals,  and,  I  believe,  abhorred  cruelty 
beyond  any  other  vice.  Three  dogs  reigned  over  his 
heart,  like  successive  sovereigns,  during  about  thirty 
years.  I  remember  his  coming  to  lunch  with  me 
soon  after  the  demise  of  the  second,  and  telling  me 
the  particulars  of  her  sudden  death.  He  used  to 
pay  the  extra  fare  when  he  travelled  that  it  might 
be  with  him  in  a  first-class  carriage.  He  was  about 


92  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

to  leave  Edinburgh  for  his  country  place,  Glenor- 
miston,  when  at  or  near  the  station  the  dog  had 
some  seizure  that  was  fatal. 

"  I  wrapped  it  in  my  plaid,"  he  said  with  a  choking 
voice,  "and  carried  it  on  my  knees,  that  it  might  be 
buried  at  Glenormiston."  Then  he  added,  with  the 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and,  I  think,  on  his  cheeks,  "  Oh,  it 
was  terrible  when  I  took  off  her  beads  ! "  The  dog 
wore  a  necklace  instead  of  a  collar.  Happily  this 
was  the  last  trial  of  that  kind  that  he  had,  for  the 
next  favourite  to  which  he  attached  himself  survived 
his  master. 

This  dog-love  was  no  mere  freak  of  declining  years. 
He  wrote  an  imaginary  autobiography  of  an  earlier 
pet,  and  had  it  printed  as  a  specimen  of  most  ex- 
quisite typography  and  exhibited  in  the  Great  Exhibi- 
tion of  1851.  He  gave  me  a  copy — which  in  subse- 
quent years  must  have  been  stolen  from  me.  The 
loss  was  a  lesson  not  to  place  a  curiosity  of  literature 
on  an  open  bookshelf. 

The  brothers  were  Nature's  gentlemen,  and  born 
organizers  and  rulers.  It  was  delightful  to  visit  their 
vast  establishment  and  observe  the  respect  in  which 
they  were  held  and  the  exquisite  order  which  pre- 
vailed. Though  strict  discipline  was  maintained,  it 
was  tempered  by  great  kindliness.  I  remember  going 
with  William  Chambers  through  a  room  where  I 
should  think  about  sixteen  or  eighteen  young  girls 
were  working,  their  occupation  entirely  consisting  in 


MR.  AND  MRS.    WILLS.  93 

folding  printed  sheets — so  far  as  I  observed  mainly 
of  the  Journal  and  Miscellany  of  Tracts — pressing 
them  down  with  a  paper-knife.  This  they  did  with 
great  rapidity,  but  several  of  the  girls  he  stopped  to 
praise  with  kindly  words  for  the  extra  neatness  of 
their  work. 

Towards  the  close  of  my  visit,  the  annual  enter- 
tainment to  their  workpeople  took  place,  in  which  a 
few  literary  friends  joined.  I  sat  next  to  Professor 
Masson,  then  a  very  young  man,  not  more  than  one- 
and-twenty  I  should  think,  but  from  his  conversation 
I  felt  sure  he  was  one  who  was  to  make  his  mark  in 
the  world.  On  that  occasion,  too,  I  think  it  was, 
that  I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Wills,  then  recently 
engaged  to  Janet  Chambers,  one  of  whose  brides- 
maids I  was  the  following  year.  She  was  the  sister 
of  William  and  Robert  Chambers,  but  much  their 
junior,  and  inherited  a  good  share  of  the  family 
talent,  contributing  from  time  to  time  sprightly 
articles  to  the  Journal.  At  the  period  of  her  engage- 
ment her  future  husband  was  one  of  the  literary 
employees  of  the  firm.  Before  their  marriage,  however, 
he  became  the  associate  of  Charles  Dickens  in  various 
journalistic  undertakings,  working  for  many  years 
very  hard  and  successfully  in  his  editorial  capacity. 
Only  in  October,  1892,  after  a  widowhood  of  many 
years,  did  Janet  Wills  pass  away,  beloved  and 
lamented  by  a  large  circle  of  friends  and  relatives. 
A  very  genial  and  well-deserved  notice  of  her 


94  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

appeared  in  the  Atkenaum  for  the  2Qth  of  the  month 
in  which  she  died.  She  was  indeed  a  woman  of  very 
rare  qualities,  both  of  heart  and  mind,  yet  so  little 
assertive  of  herself  that  one  needed  to  know  her  long 
and  well  to  fully  estimate  her  worth.  She  was 
quickly  appreciative  of  literary  work,  belonging  to 
that  high  order  of  critics  who  look  first  for  the  merits 
of  a  book  before  noticing  its  faults.  She  recognized 
the  advantage  she  had  had  in  mixing  from  her  youth 
with  intellectual  people,  whose  society  she  enjoyed 
immensely,  always  upholding  the  influence  of  men- 
tally endowed  women.  She  spoke  from  large  and 
long  experience. 

As  I  write  this  of  my  dear  old  friend,  I  feel  that 
the  generation  to  which  we  belonged  has  almost 
passed  away,  and  in  recording  circumstances  asso- 
ciated with  it  I  seem  to  be  only  rescuing  a  few  spars 
from  the  wreck  of  long  ago ! 


THE  OLD  ANNUALS.  95 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  annuals  and  the  Countess  of  Blessington — Marguerite  Power — 
H.  F.  Chorley — Louis  Napoleon — Gore  House. 

A  YEAR  or  two  before  I  commenced  writing  for 
Chambers Js  Journal  I  began  to  contribute  to  two  or 
three  of  the  leading  annuals,  feeling  gratified,  as  I 
am  very  sure  many  more  experienced  authors  would 
have  been,  by  being  allowed  to  do  so.  I  want  to 
offer  a  defence  of  these  publications,  which  it  is  now 
the  fashion  to  sneer  at  and  scorn.  They  fell  out  of 
favour,  I  am  persuaded,  not  from  deterioration  of 
quality,  but  because  the  era  of  cheap  literature  was 
slowly  advancing,  and  publishers  could  not  pay 
distinguished  authors  liberally,  and  engravers  such 
as  the  Findens  and  Heath,  the  high  prices  they 
demanded,  and  compete  with  five-shilling  Christmas 
books,  which  were  in  a  very  few  years  to  be  super- 
seded by  shilling  holiday  numbers  of  magazines. 

It  was  said  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  received  four 
hundred  guineas  for  the  short  story  he  contributed 
to  the  first  Keepsake ;  and,  allowing  for  perhaps  a 
little  exaggeration,  there  is  no  doubt  he  obtained  a 


96  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

large  sum  for  the  few  pages  from  his  pen  which 
appeared.  It  is  within  my  own  knowledge  that  for 
many  years  authors  were  exceedingly  well  paid 
when  writing  for  or  editing  the  annuals.  It  is  easy 
to  talk  of  such  and  such  an  author  giving  but  the 
"  sweepings  of  his  study  "  to  these  richly  illustrated 
gift-books,  but  why  should  he  have  done  so  when 
the  guerdon  was  so  satisfactory  ?  Brief  the  articles 
often  were,  but  where  goldsmiths  work  the  dust  is 
of  value.  Publications  with  contributions  by  Bulwer- 
Lytton,  Walter  Savage  Landor,  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall, 
William  and  Mary  Howitt,  Disraeli,  Lord  John 
Manners,  the  present  Duke  of  Rutland,  Mrs.  Hemans, 
L.  E.  L.,  Barry  Cornwall,  Mr.  Ruskin — who  did  not 
disdain  Friendship's  Offering  as  the  vehicle  for  some 
of  his  very  early  but  really  beautiful  poems — and  a 
host  of  other  writers  of  sterling  merit  could  not  be 
worthless. 

Another  cause,  little  I  suppose  suspected  by  the 
general  public,  conduced  to  the  falling  off  in  the 
sale  of  the  annuals,  and  this  was  the  opening  up 
of  what  was  called  the  overland  route  to  India. 
Calcutta,  Bombay,  and  our  Indian  empire  generally 
afforded  great  markets  for  the  annuals,  and  for  this 
reason  a  large  number  of  copies  had  always  been 
got  ready  by  the  end  of  July,  so  as  to  be  shipped 
for  the  long  voyage  round  the  Cape,  and  yet  arrive 
at  their  destination  in  time  for  Christmas  or  New 
Year's  presents.  But  when  communication  between 


THE   OLD  ANNUALS.  9} 

India  and  England  became  more  rapid  and  frequent, 
Anglo-Indians  participated  in  the  influx  of  cheap 
literature,  and  orders  for  expensive  books  fell  off 
accordingly.  Lieutenant  Waghorn's  indefatigable 
zeal  appeared  to  have  almost  annihilated  time  and 
space  in  the  days  when  a  Suez  Canal  and  submarine 
telegraphs  would  have  been  looked  upon  as  fairy  tales. 

The  annuals  made  me  acquainted  with  several 
literary  people,  for  I  not  only  wrote  in  them  for 
nearly  twenty  years,  but  for  two  years  I  was  assistant 
or  sub-editor  of  Friendship's  Offering.  The  ostensible 
editor  was  Mr.  Leitch  Ritchie,  an  author  distinguished 
in  several  departments  of  literature,  but  who  at  the 
time  he  was  associated  with  Friendship's  Offering  was 
a  good  deal  taken  up  with  political  writing.  I  sup- 
pose he  thought  me  competent  to  the  task  when  he 
proposed  that  I  should  receive  a  fair  share  of  the 
editorial  salary,  and  correspond  with  authors,  correct 
proofs,  read  offered  manuscripts,  and  arrange  for  the 
illustration  of  plates,  or  write  for  one,  as  I  did  when 
time  pressed  and  there  had  been  a  disappointment. 

My  first  experience,  however,  of  writing  to  a  plate 
had  occurred  two  or  three  years  previously,  and  had 
led  to  my  personal  acquaintance  with  Lady  Blessing- 
ton.  From  the  year  1838,  she  had  accepted  little 
poems  of  mine  for  her  Book  of  Beauty ',  always  with 
gracious  notes  of  acknowledgment;  but,  in  1839  or 
1840,  she  sent  me  the  merest  outline  of  a  portrait, 
with  a  request  that  I  would  write  a  few  verses  to 

H 


98  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

it.  I  knew  not  what  to  do.  The  engraver's  work 
was  not  sufficiently  advanced  for  me  to  divine 
whether  the  face  was  full  of  dignity  and  intelligence, 
or  only  revealed  the  beauty  of  youth ;  of  course  one 
of  these  attributes  it  must  have  been  expected  to 
possess.  I  took  counsel  with  one  or  two  intimates 
as  to  the  propriety  or  prudence  of  my  calling  on 
Lady  Blessington  instead  of  writing  to  her  about  the 
plate,  and  the  offer  of  a  friend  to  drive  me  in  her 
carriage  to  Gore  House  decided  the  matter. 

Many  subsequent  visits  I  paid,  and  one  very 
memorable  one,  but  always  was  there  the  same 
formality.  The  great  carriage  gates  were  always 
shut,  and  it  was  some  one  from  the  stable  who 
answered  the  loud  bell  from  a  small  side  door.  He 
never  knew  if  his  mistress  was  at  home,  but  took 
the  card  that  was  presented,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  visitor  was  admitted  into  the  courtyard.  The 
hall  door  was  flung  wide  open  by  a  powdered  foot- 
man in  a  gorgeous  livery  of  green  and  gold,  and  the 
name  passed  on  to  another  servitor  that  looked  in 
every  particular  his  counterpart ;  both  were  certainly 
upwards  of  six  feet  in  height.  This  second  footman 
ushered  me,  on  my  first  visit,  into  the  library,  where 
the  hostess  advanced  to  meet  me  in  the  most  cordial 
manner  possible.  Explaining  the  object  of  my  visit, 
I  gained  all  the  information  necessary,  and,  I  believe, 
had  a  more  advanced  sketch  sent  me ;  at  all  events, 
some  lines  of  mine  on  a  lady's  portrait  appeared  in 


LADY  BLESSINGTON.  99 

the  Book  of  Beaiity  for  1843.  When  I  left,  Lady 
Blessington  pressed  my  hand  in  both  of  hers,  saying, 
"  Look  upon  me  as  an  old  friend/'  with  words  that 
invited  me  to  come  and  see  her  again.  I  own  I 
was  gratified  and  charmed  by  my  reception,  and, 
prudent  or  imprudent,  I  for  some  years  made  an 
afternoon  call  at  Gore  House  every  few  months. 
Soon  Lady  Blessington  became  editress  of  the 
Keepsake  as  well  as  of  the  Book  of  Beauty r,  and  I 
continued  writing  in  both  books. 

It  must  have  been  not  later  than  1841  that  I  was 
introduced  to  Marguerite  Power,  the  niece  who  had 
lately  come  to  reside  with  Lady  Blessington,  and 
henceforth  I  seemed  to  be  considered  the  friend 
of  Miss  Power,  at  least  as  much  as  of  the  elder  lady. 
I  can  understand  the  generous  tact  which  made  Lady 
Blessington  desire  that  this  should  be  the  case. 

Marguerite  Power  was  well  known  for  many  years 
in  a  large  literary  circle  in  London  first,  and  after- 
wards in  Paris,  and  at  the  time  I  first  knew  her 
must  have  been  about  nineteen  years  of  age.  She 
was  not  strictly  beautiful,  though  she  had  what 
beauty  sometimes  lacks,  a  very  sweet  and  winning 
expression  of  face,  and  the  good  points  of  a  graceful 
figure,  as  well  as  a  small  white,  well-shaped  hand. 
Altogether  she  attracted  me  greatly,  and  I  grew  to 
like  her  very  much.  Though  several  years  my  junior, 
I  think  she  was  older  in  knowledge  of  the  world  than 
I  then  was.  Her  appearance  was  quite  as  youthful 


loo  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

as  her  stated  age,  but  not  so  her  manners.  I  never 
saw  in  her  the  hopeful  eagerness  and  buoyancy  of 
youth.  I  have  seen  her  weep,  but  I  never  heard  her 
laugh.  Whether  this  condition  arose  from  some 
early  sorrow,  from  a  touch  of  the  lymphatic  in  her 
temperament,  or  from  some  dim  consciousness  of 
the  cloud  that  hung  over  her  surroundings,  it  would 
be  hard  to  say;  perhaps  these  causes  all  combined 
to  make  her  what  she  was — calm,  earnest,  and  dig- 
nified, even  in  her  girlhood.  There  is  a  portrait  of 
her  in  the  Book  of  Beauty  for  1842,  which  is  a  very 
fair  likeness.  In  the  Keepsake,  for  1849,  she  is  again 
seen,  but  representing  here  the  heroine  of  one  of  the 
stories.  The  usual  tributary  verses  to  the  first-named 
portrait  were  written  by  H.  F.  Chorley.  They 
begin — 

"  A  song  for  her  !  whose  life  itself  a  lay 
Of  youth  and  joy  and  beauty  ; .  .  ." 

and  one  sighs,  looking  at  the  book  half  a  century 
old,  to  remember  the  sorrows  and  disappointments 
that  were  in  store  for  the  blooming  girl.  Henry 
Fothergill  Chorley  was  a  man  who,  for  some  thirty 
years,  held  an  established  position  in  London  literary 
society,  more,  however,  I  think,  as  the  musical  critic 
of  the  Athenceum,  than  for  contributions  to  other 
departments  of  literature.  In  later  years  I  knew 
him  exceedingly  well,  having  occasion  to  see  him 
at  least  once  or  twice  a  week  for  several  months  in 
reference  to  literary  work  in  which  we  were  associated. 


H.  F.   CHORLEY  AND  Ll  £.  'L.'  161 

He  was  strictly  honourable  and  reliable,  but  eccentric 
and  "crotchety,"  and  I  think  very  proud  of  being 
able  to  criticise  a  new  opera  without  taking  notes 
during  the  performance.  But,  above  all  things,  he 
was  a  "  fine  gentleman."  I  remember  his  telling  me 
of  having  had  occasion  to  call  on  L.  E.  L.,  and  finding 
her  at  the  street  door  taking  in  the  milk.  "  I  don't 
admire  that  sort  of  thing,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  expressive  of  absolute  dis- 
gust, which  seemed  intensified  by  the  fact  that  Miss 
Landon  did  not  look  at  all  discomposed  by  the 
circumstance,  merely  observing  that  the  one  servant 
had  gone  out  on  an  errand. 

Gore  House  has  long  since  been  razed  to  the 
ground,  but  it  still  is  occasionally  mentioned — often 
by  people  who  never  entered  its  portals — as  the 
meeting-place  for  some  fifteen  or  eighteen  years  of 
the  brightest  spirits  of  the  age.  Yet  I  do  not  remem- 
ber ever  reading  a  description  of  the  room  in  which 
Lady  Blessington  usually  received  her  friends.  Let 
me  attempt  one.  I  have  already  called  it  the  library, 
and  since  the  walls  were  almost  entirely  covered  with 
books,  it  assuredly  deserved  the  name.  But  the 
shelves,  or  at  any  rate  the  edges  of  them,  instead 
of  being  dark,  were  of  that  enamelled  white  which 
looks  like  ivory,  small  interstices  being  filled  up  with 
looking-glass  ;  the  panels  of  the  doors  were  also  of 
looking-glass,  and  the  handles  glass. 

It  was  a  very  large  room  on  the  right  hand,  enter- 


102  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

ing  the  house,  and,  from  its  two  fireplaces  and  sup- 
porting columns  in  the  centre,  had  evidently  been 
originally  two  apartments.  It  ran  through  the  house 
from  north  to  south,  the  southern  windows  looking 
out  on  the  lovely  garden,  with  its  fine  old  trees.  It 
was  at  this  end  of  the  room  we  always  sat,  though 
the  door  from  the  hall  was  near  the  north  windows. 
The  furniture  was  delicate,  apple-green  silk  damask 
set  in  white  and  gold,  with  fauteuils  in  abundance, 
protected  by  the  first  antimacassars  I  ever  saw — not 
the  abominations  of  crochet  and  knitting,  but  delicate 
fabrics  of  muslin  and  lace.  The  carpet  was  of  a  very 
minute  pattern,  a  shade  darker  than  the  furniture. 
Summer  and  winter  Lady  Blessington  always  occupied 
the  same  seat,  a  large  easy-chair  near  the  fireplace,  with 
a  small  table  beside  her,  on  which  was  probably  a  new 
book  with  the  paper-knife  between  the  leaves,  and  a 
scent-bottle  and  a  fan.  Through  all  the  years  I  knew 
her  she  never  varied  her  style  of  head-dress.  What 
hair  was  visible  was  of  a  chestnut  hue,  braided  down 
the  cheeks,  while  straight  across  the  forehead,  in  what 
I  can  only  describe  as  the  lady-abbess  fashion,  was  a 
piece  of  rich  lace  or  blonde,  but  the  same  material 
was  brought  down  one  side  of  the  face  and  drawn 
tight  as  if  supporting  the  chin,  and  invisibly  fastened 
on  the  other  side.  The  lace  set  her  face  as  if  in  a 
frame,  and  hid  many  telltale  lines  of  advancing 
years.  No  doubt  Lady  Blessington  studied  dress,  as 
every  woman  to  a  certain  degree  should  do ;  but  she 


VISCOUNTESS  BEACONSFIELD.  103 

never  attempted  to  conceal  her  age,  talking  freely  of 
the  long  ago  and  of  Byron,  whom  of  course  she  called 
Birron.  She  was  about  fifty  when  I  first  knew  her, 
and  very  stout,  a  circumstance  which  she  spoke  of 
and  lamented ;  but  she  had  the  remains  of  great 
beauty,  though  her  nose  was  slightly  "  tip-tilted." 
She  had  abundant  command  of  language,  speaking, 
in  my  opinion,  more  eloquently  than  she  wrote,  and 
in  tones  where  now  and  then  the  delicate  flavour  of 
the  Dublin  accent  could  be  detected — that  accent 
which  gives  emphasis  and  expression  to  kind  words, 
and  is  wholly  different  from  what  is  called  brogue. 
She  told  a  good  story  capitally,  and  was  quite  the 
best  raconteuse  I  ever  heard. 

She  related  to  me  a  little  anecdote  of  Mrs.  Wynd- 
ham  Lewis,  who  lived  to  be  Viscountess  Beacons- 
field,  and  which  I  imagine  she  must  have  had  from 
Disraeli,  or  perhaps  from  L.  E.  L.  herself;  at  any 
rate,  she  spoke  of  the  circumstance  as  within  her 
knowledge.  The  rich  widow  heard  incidentally  that 
Miss  Landon  was  saving  up  her  money  to  buy  a 
black  velvet  dress,  and  the  next  day  a  present  of 
twenty  yards  of  Genoa  velvet  was  sent  to  her  in  the 
most  delicate  manner,  with  expressions  of  regret  that 
"  L.  E.  L.  should  have  wished  for  anything  she  could 
not  obtain." 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  present  was  accepted  as 
graciously  as  it  was  offered.  Poor  L.  E.  L. !  who 
throughout  her  short  life  worked  for  others  rather 


104  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

than  herself ;  who  once  said  that  out  of  £400  she 
received  for  a  book  she  bought  for  herself  only  a  pair 
of  gloves ;  who  suffered  from  terrible  headaches,  but 
wrote  verses,  to  keep  her  engagements  with  pub- 
lishers, with  wet  bandages  across  her  forehead  !  Per- 
haps she  is  as  much  depreciated  now  as  she  was 
overlauded  in  her  lifetime.  But  hers  was  a  develop- 
ing genius  ;  her  latest  work  was  her  best,  and  she  died 
at  six  and  thirty,  before  her  mind  had  really  ripened. 
Her  fate  seems  to  me  quite  as  sad  as  that  of  Keats. 

Lady  Blessington  was  a  staunch  Buonapartist,  and 
often  spoke  of  Queen  Hortense,  whom  she  seemed  to 
have  known  well.  One  day  she  mentioned  that  she 
had  a  very  beautiful  ring  which  the  great  Emperor 
had  given  to  his  step-daughter,  adding,  "  Would  you 
like  to  see  it  ?  "  Of  course  I  said  "  Yes,"  and  she  rang 
the  bell  which  was  at  her  elbow,  and  asked  for  her 
maid,  to  whom  she  gave  a  key  and  instructions. 

I  do  not  presume  to  be  a  great  judge  of  gems,  but 
much  as  I  had  always  admired  the  sapphire,  I  never 
imagined  it  could  be  so  beautiful  as  the  one  surrounded 
by  diamonds  which  was  shown  to  me.  The  blue  trans- 
lucent depth  of  the  water  was  a  thing  to  remember 
for  ever  ;  but  though  set  as  a  ring,  it  was  far  too  large 
to  be  appropriately  worn  as  such  by  ordinary  mortals, 
having  the  dimensions  of  a  fair-sized  brooch.  I  have 
often  thought  I  should  like  to  have  known  the  history 
of  that  jewel,  but  Lady  Blessington  only  mentioned 
it  as  having  been  the  gift  of  the  first  Napoleon  to 


T.    G.    WA1NEWRIGHT.  105 

Queen  Hortense,  who,  I  suppose,  presented  it  to  its 
then  owner.  It  might  have  been  the  ecclesiastical 
ring  of  some  high  functionary  in  the  Romish  Church, 
or  have  adorned  the  image  of  some  patron  saint ;  in 
either  case  it  was,  perhaps,  the  spoil  of  the  un- 
scrupulous conqueror.  It  must  have  been  worth 
hundreds  of  pounds.  I  wonder  at  the  Gore  House 
wreck  what  became  of  it ! 

I  remember  some  few  months  before  Bulwer  Lytton 
published  his  "  Children  of  Night,"  Lady  Blessington 
told  me  the  sort  of  subject  on  which  he  was  engaged. 
It  was  a propos  of  showing  me  the  portrait  of  a  niece 
then  at  the  antipodes,  a  younger  sister  of  Miss  Power, 
and  which  was  painted  by  the  notorious  convict, 
Thomas  Griffiths  Wainewright,  sentenced  to  trans- 
portation for  life  for  forgery,  which  he  confessed,  and 
suspected  of  poisoning  his  uncle,  and  his  wife's  sister 
for  the  sake  of  the  insurance  he  had  effected  on  her 
life.  At  one  time  this  man  was  well  known  in  literary 
and  artistic  circles,  writing  in  the  London  Magazine 
under  the  name  of  "  Janus  Weathercock."  By  those 
who  had  known  him  he  was  reported  to  have  been  a 
man  of  mediocre,  but  varied  and  serviceable  talents, 
devoured  by  conceit,  and  a  fop  in  dress  and  manners, 
When  he  was  taken  on  board  the  convict  ship  he 
endeavoured,  but  without  effect,  I  suppose,  to  soften 
the  hearts  of  the  authorities,  exclaiming,  "  I,  who 
have  been  accustomed  to  the  society  of  poets  and 
philosophers,  to  herd  with  such  as  these  ! " 


106  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

The  portrait  that  was  shown  to  me  was  something 
in  the  style  of  Alfred  Chalon,  but  wanting  that  last 
refining  touch  of  ineffable  grace  which,  notwithstand- 
ing their  mannerisms,  rendered  the  portraits  by  the 
French  artist  so  charming. 

Long  before  his  conviction  and  transportation 
Wainewright's  character  was  so  suspected  that  he 
had  gone  abroad,  and  had  been  half  forgotten  by  his 
former  friends;  but  Dickens  somewhere  relates  that 
when  he  was  going  over  Newgate,  with  Macready  and 
Barry  Cornwall,  the  two  latter  were  suddenly  shocked 
by  recognizing  Wainewright  among  the  prisoners  as 
a  man  whom  they  had  not  only  met  in  society,  but 
at  whose  table,  in  the  year  1821,  they  had  sat, 
meeting  there  Hazlitt  and  other  celebrities.  Fifty 
or  sixty  years  ago  convicts  of  exceptional  ability  in 
New  South  Wales  were  often  treated  leniently,  hence 
the  circumstance  that  Wainewright  had  been  allowed 
to  occupy  himself  as  an  artist  I  heard  so  much 
of  his  history  at  Gore  House  that  I  was  a  little 
disposed  to  write  a  magazine  article  about  him  ;  but 
before  I  had  put  pen  to  paper  Miss  Power  sent  me 
a  letter  of  the  convict's  wife  to  read,  which  touched 
me  so  much  that  I  refrained  from  my  purpose.  I 
forget  to  whom  the  letter  was  addressed,  but  to 
one  of  the  Power  family,  I  think,  who  had  taken 
an  interest  in  and  done  some  kindness  to  the 
miserable,  heart-broken  woman.  I  never  read  any- 
thing which,  in  fact  or  in  fiction,  so  revealed  the 


GORE  HOUSE.  i°7 

consciousness  of  hopeless  degradation  ;  and  it  would 
have  been  cruel  then  to  keep  alive  the  story  of  her 
misery  ;  but  nearly  half  a  century  has  elapsed,  and 
in  the  course  of  nature  she  must  have  passed  from 
the  scene  of  her  anguish  to  the  sphere  where  the 
sorrow-stricken  are  comforted  and  tears  are  wiped 
away. 

Some  years  later  I  knew  the  original  of  the 
convict's  portrait  when  her  mother  brought  her  to 
England.  She  was  a  charming  and  accomplished 
girl  ;  but,  like  her  sisters,  spoke  with  a  peculiar 
drawl,  evidently  acquired  from  her  mother,  in  whom 
it  was  still  more  pronounced.  I  remember  it  in 
another  family  with  which  in  childhood  I  was 
acquainted,  and  have  sometimes  wondered  whether 
it  was  a  survival  of  what  in  the  last  century  was 
called  the  Devonshire  drawl,  not,  I  fancy,  from  any 
resemblance  to  the  west-country  dialect,  but  from 
the  affectation  of  an  exclusive  coterie. 

I  am  tempted  to  describe  one  of  my  visits  to  Gore 
House  rather  circumstantially,  chiefly  because  I  saw 
there  a  world-famous  man.  I  am  nearly  sure  it  was  on 
the  1st  of  August,  1846.  At  all  events  it  was  a  day 
about  that  period,  a  day  memorable  for  one  of  the 
most  violent  storms  of  thunder  and  lightning  and  rain 
ever  known  in  London.  The  weather  in  the  morning 
was  real  summer  weather,  suggestive  to  the  feminine 
mind  of  muslin  dresses,  so  delightful  to  wear  when 
the  temperature  permits,  lessening  fatigue  to  the  non- 


io8  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

robust  very  perceptibly.  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  call  on  Lady  Blessington,  and  though,  as  the  day 
went  on,  the  heat  increased,  there  seemed  nothing 
in  the  weather  to  thwart  my  intention.  I  arrived 
at  Gore  House  about  three  o'clock,  I  forget  how, 
probably  by  omnibus,  getting  out  a  hundred  yards 
from  my  destination.  I  might  have  been  chatting 
with  Miss  Power  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
when  a  low  sound  of  thunder  attracted  us,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  it  became  evident  that  a  storm  was 
at  hand.  It  proved  of  the  most  violent  character, 
doing  damage,  an  account  of  which  filled  the  news- 
papers the  next  day.  After  a  little  while  the  rain 
came  down  in  torrents,  drenching  the  garden  that 
we  looked  out  upon,  and  forming  rivulets  in  every 
direction.  It  was  weather  in  which,  according  to 
the  proverb,  you  would  not  turn  your  enemy's  dog 
out  of  doors.  (N.B. — We  might  perhaps  like  our 
enemy's  dog  better  than  its  master.)  It  was  before 
the  storm  had  much  abated  that  Miss  Power  was 
called  out  of  the  room  ;  but  in  a  very  few  minutes 
she  returned,  saying,  "My  aunt  begs  that  you  will 
stay  to  dinner.  We  shall  be  quite  alone,  only  Count 
D'Orsay  and  ourselves." 

What  could  I  do  but  accept  the  impromptu  invita- 
tion gratefully !  Dinner  was  not  until  eight  o'clock, 
and  unthought  of  as  yet  was  the  five-o'clock  tea, 
so  there  was  a  long  interval  to  pass  somehow.  I 
had  a  better  opportunity  of  noticing  works  of  art, 


MISS  POWER.  109 

or  articles  of  interest  scattered  about  the  tables,  than 
I  had  ever  had  before,  and  I  grew,  I  think,  more 
and  more  able  to  appreciate  the  fine  taste  which 
pervaded  the  apartment.  There  was  no  one  mass 
of  looking-glass  or  very  striking  object  to  distract 
the  attention  on  entering  the  room  from  its  human 
occupants,  though  when  sought  for  there  was  abun- 
dance to  charm.  I  suppose  different  people  feel  local 
influences  differently,  one  person  being  contented  in 
a  dwelling  in  which  another  could  not  but  be 
miserable.  None  can  tell  what  may  have  happened 
in  that  library ;  but  my  feeling  about  it  was  of  a 
place  sacred  to  kindly  thoughts  and  kindly  speech, 
where  bright  ideas  had  birth,  and  angry  words  were 
never  spoken. 

I  should  mention  that  the  drawing-room  led  out 
of  the  library  by  a  masked  door,  and  was  reached 
by  three  steps  down.  I  was  shown  it  one  day  for 
the  sake  of  the  pictures,  and  found  it  a  spacious, 
magnificent  room  looking  out  on  the  garden.  It  was 
loftier  than  the  rooms  level  with  the  hall,  perhaps  by 
means  of  the  lower  flooring. 

Of  course  I  was  in  mere  morning  costume — a 
muslin  dress,  which  fortunately  was  fresh,  though  of 
the  simplest  character.  Half  an  hour  or  more  before 
dinner-time  Miss  Power  took  me  to  her  room  to 
wash  my  hands  and  smooth  my  hair,  and  make  my 
toilet  as  presentable  as  circumstances  permitted;  and 
now  it  was  that  I  was  struck  by  an  instance  of 


I ro  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

good  breeding,  which  must  be  my  apology  for  these 
personal  details.  On  the  bed  was  laid  out  a  pretty 
dinner  dress,  and  Henriette,  the  French  maid,  was 
in  attendance;  but  Miss  Power  turned  to  her  and, 
speaking  in  French,  intimated  that  she  was  not 
going  to  change  her  dress.  So  Miss  Power  retained 
her  morning  dress  of  simple  white  that  she  might 
keep  her  guest  in  countenance.  It  was  surely  one 
of  those  acts  of  true  politeness  the  springs  of  which 
are  real  kindliness  and  thoughtfulness. 

At  this  time  the  younger  sister,  Ellen  Power,  was 
an  invalid,  so  that  she  did  not  join  us  at  dinner. 
We  formed  a  party  carrt—  Lady  Blessington,  Count 
D'Orsay,  Marguerite  Power,  and  myself.  I  had  heard 
much  of  Count  D'Orsay,  but  had  never  seen  him  ; 
and,  as  he  gave  me  his  arm  from  the  library  to  the 
dining-room,  I  could  not  but  feel  how  strange  was 
the  accident  which  had  placed  me  in  my  present 
position.  There  is  no  denying  that  I  was  interested 
in  seeing  for  myself  a  phase  of  the  domestic  life 
which  had  been  so  much  talked  about,  since  the 
opportunity  seemed  as  it  were  to  have  been  forced 
upon  me.  The  dinner  was,  of  course,  a  refined  one, 
though  without  being  very  elaborate  ;  and  it  was  so 
soon  over  that  we  had  returned  to  the  library  and 
were  having  coffee  before  half-past  nine  o'clock. 
Shortly  after  this  time  "  Le  Prince  Louis  Napoleon  " 
was  announced,  and  there  entered  the  man  lately 
escaped  from  Ham,  who  was  considered  by  the 


PRINCE  LOUIS  NAPOLEON.  in 

generality  of  people  as  only  a  poor  vain  creature, 
hardly  worth  the  trouble  of  making  a  prisoner  ;  but 
who  was  destined  in  a  few  years  to  be  our  "  faithful 
ally,"  to  reach  imperial  dignity,  and  to  be  for  nearly 
two  decades  the  most  commanding  figure  on  the 
continent  of  Europe.  Yet  was  he  doomed  to  fall 
tragically,  and  die  in  exile. 

The  Prince  was  received  by  his  hostess  and  Count 
D'Orsay  with  the  quiet  cordiality  which  marked  him 
as  the  intimate  friend  and  habitut.  Lady  Blessington 
occupied  her  usual  chair.  I  sat  near  her,  and  the 
visitor  took  the  easy-chair  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  wide  fireplace,  D'Orsay  drawing  his  own  chair 
near  him,  while  Miss  Power  remained  between  me 
and  the  Count.  The  Prince,  speaking  in  French, 
addressed  himself  chiefly  to  D'Orsay,  and  in  a 
lugubrious  tone,  for  he  seemed  to  be  speaking  much 
of  his  father,  for  whom  he  was  in  deep  mourning, 
marked  by  his  crape-covered  hat ;  but  I  heard  little, 
for  Lady  Blessington  and  Miss  Power  continued 
talking  to  me.  Still  I  turned  my  eyes  sometimes 
on  the  new-comer,  whom  I  certainly  thought  one  of 
the  ugliest  men  I  had  ever  seen.  His  nose  seemed 
enormous,  and  his  eyes  sunken  and  small.  His 
complexion  was  so  darkly  sallow  that  it  reminded 
me  of  Carlyle's  description  of  "  the  sea-green 
Robespierre."  Nevertheless  I  admired  his  simple 
manners,  which  were  more  like  those  of  an  English 
gentleman  than  what  we  used  to  associate  with  a 


112  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

Frenchman.  There  was  no  more  gesticulation  or 
emphasis  of  speech  than  is  becoming. 

Earlier  in  the  evening  it  had  been  arranged  that 
a  cab  should  be  sent  for  to  take  me  home,  and  at 
ten  o'clock  it  was  announced.  After  making  my 
adieux,  I  was  followed  into  the  hall  by  Miss  Power, 
who  intimated  to  me  that  the  cab  was  one  which 
Count  D'Orsay  had  used  all  day,  and  that  consequently 
there  would  be  nothing  to  pay.  It  was  impossible 
for  me  to  do  anything  but  express  my  acknowledg- 
ments, but  I  laughed  to  myself  at  the  kind-hearted 
subterfuge,  and  the  very  pale-coloured  fib  which 
had  been  told  to  spare  my  pocket.  The  idea  of 
the  elegant,  over-fastidious  Count  D'Orsay  having 
employed  a  four-wheeler  for  the  day  seemed  to  me 
ludicrous.  I  enjoyed  my  drive  from  Kensington  to 
the  Hampstead  Road  in  the  fresh  night  air  that 
followed  the  storm,  none  the  less  because  I  had  not 
to  pay  for  it. 

Within  a  fortnight  from  this  time  I  received  an 
invitation  to  again  dine  at  Gore  House.  It  was  a 
short  notice,  one  day  for  the  next,  and  the  pretext 
was  to  meet  Mr.  Bentley,  whom  Lady  Blessington 
thought  it  would  be  advantageous  to  me  to  know 
personally.  I  was  ill  at  the  time,  suffering  from 
neuralgia,  and  I  knew  that  many  of  my  friends 
would  shake  their  heads  at  my  accepting  this  invita- 
tion. But  I  felt  keenly  that  I  must  go.  It  seemed 
to  me  that,  remembering  the  former  hospitality,  it 


LADY  BLESSINGTON.  113 

would  have  been  the  height  of  rudeness  and  ingrati- 
tude to  refuse.  And  then  how  dare  I  say  that  it 
was  not  fit  for  me  to  visit  the  home  of  two  young 
girls  like  Marguerite  Power  and  her  sister,  whose 
residence  with  their  aunt,  it  seemed  to  me,  ought  to 
have  quieted  slanderous  tongues  ? 

The  true  story  of  poor  Lady  Blessington's  life  is 
little  likely  ever  to  be  known.  What  I  have  heard 
I  have  gleaned  from  various  sources,  notably  from 
one  who  knew  a  great  deal  about  her,  nearly  twenty 
years  before  the  time  of  which  I  am  telling.  That 
she  was  almost  literally  sold  by  her  drunken  father, 
an  Irish  squire,  when  she  was  little  more  than  a  child, 
and  married  to  Captain  Farmer  at  the  age  of  fifteen, 
is,  I  believe,  a  fact.  That  the  husband  was  even 
more  vicious  and  brutal  than  the  father,  was  likewise 
well  known — so  that  the  young  wife  separated  from 
him  before  she  was  twenty.  Some  seven  years  later, 
after  the  death  of  her  worthless  husband,  she  married 
Lord  Blessington.  And  it  may  be  that  trials  and 
temptations,  which  would  make  the  very  angels 
weep,  beset  her  in  the  intervening  years  ;  but  no  one 
doubts  that  she  was  a  faithful  wife  to  Lord  Blessing- 
ton.  After  his  death,  her  intimate  association  with 
Count  D'Orsay  was  imprudent,  but  I  can  easily 
believe  that  it  grew  out  of  a  complication  of  circum- 
stances. 

Foreigners  seem  to  think  more  than  we  do  of 
family  ties,  such  as  that  which  existed  in  the  present 

I 


114  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

case,  for  D'Orsay  was  the  husband  of  Lord  Blessing- 
ton's  daughter  by  his  first  wife  ;  but  the  marriage 
was  an  unhappy  one,  ending  in  separation.  Lady 
Blessington  must  have  been  twelve  or  fourteen  years 
older  than  D'Orsay,  and  their  manner  was  very  much 
that  of  mother  and  son. 

Count  D'Orsay's  house  was  a  small  bachelor's 
residence  next  to  Gore  House ;  but  I  heard  that 
there  was  a  garden  communication  between  the 
two,  and  that  his  studio  was  in  the  basement  of 
Gore  House.  I  can  only  say  that  in  all  my  inter- 
course with  Lady  Blessington  I  cannot  recall  a  word 
from  her  lips  which  conveyed  an  idea  of  laxity  of 
morals,  while  very  often  her  advice  was  excellent. 
She  was  always  in  a  high  degree  generously  sympa- 
thetic with  the  struggling  and  unfortunate,  not  in 
words  only,  but  in  actions,  for  she  would  take  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  to  do  a  small  service,  and  was  a  kind 
friend  to  many  who  were  shy  of  acknowledging  their 
obligation. 

But  this  is  a  long  digression  from  the  little  dinner- 
party to  which  I  had  been  invited.  The  next  arrival 
to  myself,  following  me  by  only  a  few  minutes,  was 
Lord  Strangford,  the  sometime  diplomatist,  and 
translator  of  Camoens,  at  this  time  an  elderly  man, 
and  the  father  of  the  Percy  Smythe  who  was  associated 
with  the  Young  England  party.  I  noticed  that  as 
he  took  Lady  Blessington's  hand  he  bowed  over  it, 
touching  it  with  his  lips  with  that  old-fashioned 


COUNT  D^ORS AY.  115 

courtesy  which  soon  became  rare.  There  was  not 
a  trace  of  affectation  in  his  easy  yet  dignified 
manners — manners  which  seemed  natural  to  the 
scholarly  man  of  the  world  accustomed  to  the 
atmosphere  of  courts,  and  which  contrasted  very 
favourably  with  the  bearing  of  Count  D'Orsay.  At 
dinner  I  sat  between  the  two. 

D'Orsay  was  considered  a  handsome  man,  and  the 
leader  of  fashion  in  men's  attire.  He  was  tall,  and 
with  a  good  figure  and  carriage,  and  had  fine  hazel 
eyes,  but  he  had  one  great  defect,  which  made  me 
wonder  he  was  so  much  admired.  His  teeth  had 
gaps  between  them,  which  caused  his  smile  to  de- 
generate into  something  approaching  a  sneer  ;  and 
his  hands,  large  and  white  and  apparently  soft,  had 
not  the  physiognomy  which  pleases  the  critical 
observer  and  student  of  hands.  I  thought  his  con- 
versation commonplace ;  but  perhaps,  though  he 
spoke  English  fluently  enough,  his  vocabulary  of 
the  language  was  somewhat  limited.  He  struck 
me  as  being  mannish,  rather  than  manly,  and  yet 
with  a  touch  of  effeminacy  quite  different  from  that 
woman-like  tenderness  which  adds  to  the  excellence 
of  a  man.  I  think  the  characteristics  to  which  I  have 
alluded  often  distinguish  the  self-indulgent,  and, 
whatever  his  talents  and  accomplishments,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  Count  D'Orsay  was  without  prin- 
ciple, or  even  the  worldly  prudence,  which  sometimes 
is  the  poor  substitute  for  conscience. 


Ii6  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

I  wonder  if  it  is  worth  recording  that  a  large  French 
poodle  belonging  to  Count  D'Orsay  was  said  to 
have  suggested  the  principal  dog  in  Landseer's 
"  Laying  Down  the  Law."  I  believe  it  was  this  poor 
animal  which  met  with  a  sad  end,  dying  in  conse- 
quence of  injuries  received  from  Lady  Blessington 
treading  on  it  in  the  dusk  as  it  lay  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  One  can  imagine  how  like  a  white  mat  it 
might  have  appeared. 

Mr.  Bentley,  the  publisher,  and  Miss  Power  and 
her  sister  Ellen — there  is  a  portrait  of  the  latter,  after 
Landseer,  perhaps  a  trifle  idealized,  in  the  Book  of 
Beauty  for  1843 — made  up  the  little  dinner-party. 
When  we  returned  to  the  library,  Mr.  Bentley  entered 
into  conversation  with  me  ;  but  it  was  chiefly  about 
Lady  Blessington  and  her  books,  dilating  on  the 
eagerness  with  which  her  works  were  read.  As  this 
statement  implied  commercial  success  with  regard 
to  them,  it  was  a  very  satisfactory  one  to  hear  from 
her  publisher. 

Not  very  long  after  this  dinner-party  I  thought 
it  right  to  pay  my  respects  by  calling  at  Gore  House. 
As  latterly  had  been  usual,  I  was  received  by  Miss 
Power,  who  after  a  little  while  was  called  out  of  the 
room,  as  she  had  been  on  a  former  occasion  ;  when 
she  returned,  it  was  as  before,  with  a  message  from 
her  aunt,  asking  me  to  stay  to  dinner,  saying  they 
expected  Prince  Louis  Napoleon,  Lord  Brougham, 
Mr.  Disraeli,  and  some  other  friends,  whom  perhaps 


GORE  HOUSE.  117 

I  should  like  to  meet.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances I  am  not  quite  sure  what  I  should  have 
done  ;  but  I  had  never  thought  of  such  a  proposi- 
tion as  this  in  pleasant  weather,  and  it  so  happened 
that  I  considered  myself  pledged  to  be  at  home  that 
evening,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Chambers,  who 
were  in  town,  had  promised  to  drop  in  at  teatime 
if  they  could  one  evening  that  week — if  they  did  not 
hear  from  me  of  any  engagement.  I  explained  the 
case  to  Miss  Power,  with  due  acknowledgments  and 
expressions  of  regret ;  but  I  had  no  alternative.  I 
could  not  pass  a  slight  on  my  kind  Scotch  friends. 
I  was  never  again  invited  to  dinner,  though  I  called 
occasionally  at  Gore  House  as  before.  Almost,  if 
not  quite  always,  it  was  only  Miss  Power  I  saw ;  but 
when  Christmas  came  round  I  received,  as  I  had 
done  for  many  years,  a  present  from  Lady  Blessing- 
ton,  usually  of  jewellery.  It  was  in  this  way  she 
requited  many  of  her  contributors,  for  the  evil  days 
had  set  in  when  the  publishers  were  more  parsi- 
monious than  of  old. 

I  have  often  thought  that  it  was  all  for  the  best 
that  I  could  not  stay  to  dinner  on  the  occasion  to 
which  I  have  referred.  I  might  have  been  drawn  into 
the  vortex  of  the  Gore  House  set  a  great  deal  more 
than  was  good  for  me ;  but  it  pained  me  to  fancy 
that  I  might  have  been  suspected  of  only  fabricating 
an  excuse. 

In  1848  I  married,  and  henceforth,  living  farther 


Ii8  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

from  London  than  formerly,  I  only  saw  Miss  Power 
once  for  several  years.  If  I  remember  rightly,  it  was 
in  the  early  spring  of  1849  that  the  crash  came,  and 
the  contents  of  Gore  House  were  sold  by  auction  ; 
and  for  the  few  months  remaining  of  her  life,  Lady 
Blessington  resided  in  Paris.  She  must  have  felt 
bitterly  leaving  her  charming  home — a  necessity, 
it  was  supposed,  entailed  by  her  having  made  herself 
responsible  for  some  of  Count  D'Orsay's  debts. 
However,  Miss  Power,  in  writing  to  me,  made  the 
best  of  everything,  saying  how  fond  her  aunt  was  of 
Paris,  and  how  much  less  fatiguing  than  formerly 
her  life  would  now  be.  But  she  lived  only  till  the 
summer  of  1849,  dying  suddenly  in  the  June  of  that 
year.  Miss  Power  told  me  that  they  had  been 
dining  the  evening  before  with  Count  D'Orsay's 
nephew,  the  Due  de  Guiche,  and  as  it  was  a  warm 
summer  moonlight  night,  and  their  residence  was 
not  far  distant,  they  walked  home.  The  walk,  how- 
ever, and  the  climbing  some  stairs  which  followed, 
proved  too  much  for  Lady  Blessington's  weak  heart. 
She  had  a  sudden  seizure  which  carried  her  off  the 
next  morning,  at  the  age  of  sixty. 

No  doubt  the  accession  to  power  of  Louis  Napoleon, 
to  whom  for  years  she  had  been  a  kind  friend,  had 
something  to  do  with  her  settling  in  Paris ;  and  it  is 
said  that  he  was  anything  but  pleased  at  the  step  she 
had  taken.  The  story  goes  that  he  asked  her  how 
long  she  intended  to  remain  in  Paris,  and  that  she 


"  THE  KEEPSAKE?  119 

replied  by  the  question,  "  Et  vous,  monseigneur  ?  " 
She  was  quite  equal  to  making  the  retort ;  but  I 
think  myself  she  had  too  much  worldly  wisdom  to 
do  so.  Besides,  she  was  a  staunch  Buonapartist,  and 
had  faith  in  the  family  star.  Possibly,  however,  she 
had  experienced  some  disappointment  during  her 
sojourn  in  Paris,  which,  coming  on  the  break-up  at 
Gore  House,  had  helped  to  undermine  her  health. 

Marguerite  Power  carried  on  the  editorship  of  the 
Keepsake  for  several  years,  and  wrote  a  touching  and 
graceful  preface  to  the  forthcoming  volume,  just 
ready  for  the  press  when  Lady  Blessington  died. 
I  saw  her  when  she  came  to  London  for  a  brief  stay 
some  time  afterwards,  and  I  believe  all  her  friends 
understood  how  important  it  was  that  she  should  be 
able  to  carry  on  the  annual.  I  think  nearly  if  not 
quite  all  the  eminent  people  who  had  written  for  it 
under  Lady  Blessington's  editorship,  continued  their 
aid  under  that  of  her  niece,  and  the  seven  volumes 
which  ensued  afford  to  this  day  very  pleasant  reading, 
contrasting,  in  my  opinion,  most  favourably  with 
most  of  the  modern  holiday  numbers  of  periodicals. 
Articles  for  the  best  annuals — whether  they  were 
paid  for  by  a  publisher's  cheque  or  not — were  always 
written  for  educated  and  cultivated  readers.  If  a 
classical  or  mythological  allusion  or  reference  to 
the  world-famous  belles  lettres  was  made,  there  was 
reliance  it  would  be  understood  ;  whereas  when  the 
flood  of  literature  for  the  masses  set  in,  a  different 


120  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

order  of  things  began  to  prevail.  I  remember  the 
editor  of  a  highly  successful  cheap  publication  saying 
to  me,  in  reference  to  what  I  was  doing  for  him, 
"  Do  not  appear  to  teach,  but  at  the  same  time  do 
not  give  your  readers  credit  for  knowing  anything." 

When  the  cheap  literature  clamoured  for  the 
mastery,  it  began  to  be  the  fashion  to  call  the  annuals 
"elegant"  productions,  and  thoughtful  but  refined 
writers  "elegant  authors,"  distorting  a  fine  word 
from  its  old  and  right  meaning.  Lowell,  in  his  "  Fable 
for  Critics,"  castigates  Poe  for  applying  some  such 
epithet  to  Longfellow,  saying — 

"  Remember  that  elegance  also  is  force  ;  " 

and  many  and  many  an  "  elegant "  Keepsake  article 
is  far  stronger  in  the  sense  of  truth  and  purity  than 
the  coarse  sensationalism  which  has  crept  into 
favour. 

After  her  aunt's  death,  Marguerite  Power  lived 
chiefly  in  Paris  ;  and  I  had  the  gratification  of  being 
able  to  help  her  a  little  in  the  production  of  the 
Keepsake,  as  there  were  some  difficulties  in  proof- 
correcting  and  corresponding  with  authors  in  the 
days  when  postal  communication  was  not  so  rapid 
as  at  present.  Looking  over  these  old  books,  my 
impression  is  confirmed  that  she  had  more  true 
literary  ability  than  her  aunt ;  her  poems  are  some- 
thing more  than  graceful,  and  her  prose  is  always 
thoughtful,  with  the  flowing  rhythm  of  balanced 


"  THE  KEEPSAKE."  121 

periods  that  makes  her  style  the  opposite  of 
amateurish.  I  maintain  that  it  was  not  in  the  falling 
off  of  its  contents  that  the  Keepsake  ceased  with  the 
volume  for  1857.  That  volume  contained  a  charming 
lyric  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  some  lines  by 
her  husband,  a  delightfully  characteristic  article  on 
Uttoxeter  by  the  author  of  the  "  Scarlet  Letter,"  an 
alpine  sketch  by  Albert  Smith,  and  contributions 
by  Barry  Cornwall,  Owen  Meredith  (the  second  Lord 
Lytton),  and  other  writers  fully  worthy  of  being 
placed  beside  them.  Of  course  the  engravings  were 
worthy  of  Heath.  Also,  during  her  editorship,  Miss 
Power  enlisted  the  services  of  Thackeray,  H.  F. 
Chorley,  Tennyson,  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  Eugene  Sue, 
Madame  Emile  de  Girardin,  and  de  Lamartine ;  the 
little  French  articles  being  a  pleasant  innovation. 

I  think  it  a  debt  due  to  Marguerite  Power  to  dwell 
on  her  merits,  for  her  life  had  surely  pathetic  aspects. 
I  am  afraid  the  cessation  of  the  Keepsake  was,  in  a 
pecuniary  sense,  a  great  trouble — for  I  know  that 
soon  afterwards  her  circumstances  were  painfully 
narrow ;  also,  I  fear,  her  sister  Ellen  becoming  a 
Roman  Catholic  and  taking  the  veil,  must  have  been 
a  great  sorrow  to  her.  Ellen  Power's  conversion  to 
Romanism  was  said  to  be  owing  to  her  intimacy  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Praslin,  who  was  so  terribly  orphaned, 
and  who  took  refuge  from  her  anguish  in  the  austeri- 
ties of  her  religion.  But  I  think  it  w.as  Marguerite 
herself  who  wrote  me  word  that  her  sister's  health 


122  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

had  broken  down  under  the  discipline  of  the  convent, 
and  that  she  had  obtained  a  dispensation  for  a  few 
weeks  to  take  her  to  Boulogne  with  the  hope  of 
benefiting  her.  I  have  to  confess  that  after  a  time 
our  correspondence  languished — not,  I  am  sure,  from 
decay  of  friendship,  but  because  we  were  far  apart 
in  separate  circles,  and  were  both  too  busy  to  write 
needless  letters.  Happily,  Marguerite  Power  made 
and  kept  many  friends,  and  with  some  of  these  she 
travelled  to  the  East.  But  she  was  already  in  failing 
health,  partly,  I  heard,  in  consequence  of  a  fall  from 
a  pony,  from  which  she  never  recovered.  Possibly 
it  was  in  one  of  her  last  letters  she  told  me  she  had 
been  within  sight  of  the  Pyramids,  without  being 
well  enough  to  reach  them.  Perhaps  she  mentions 
this  circumstance  in  her  graphic  book,  "Arabian 
Days  and  Nights,"  which  was  the  result  of  her 
expedition.  Her  death  was  lamented  by  many 
friends. 


MR.   AND  MRS.  S.   C.   HALL.  123 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  "forties"  continued — Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall — Thomas  Moore — 
Jenny  Lind — Rosa  Bonheur — The  author  of  "John  Halifax, 
Gentleman,"  etc. 

IT  was  in  the  spring  of  1842  that  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall ;  and, 
happily  for  me,  mere  acquaintanceship  soon  passed 
into  a  friendship  that  brightened  my  life.  She  was 
then  in  the  zenith  of  her  popularity,  for  her  best 
novels  and  her  admirable  Irish  stories  were  already 
before  the  world ;  but,  though  the  outside  public 
might  from  her  books  gain  some  idea  of  the  writer, 
it  required  intimate  personal  knowledge  to  form  any- 
thing like  an  estimate  of  her  many  great  qualities. 
For  my  own  part  I  cannot  imagine  a  character  more 
finely  balanced,  and  in  this  balance  lay  her  strength 
and  her  influence.  She  called  herself  an  Irishwoman, 
but  her  mother,  Mrs.  Fielding,  whom  I  well  remember 
as  a  very  cultivated  old  lady,  was  of  Swiss  Huguenot 
extraction,  and  I  was  told  that  on  her  father's  side 
Mrs.  Hall  claimed  some  collateral  relationship  to 
Henry  Fielding  the  novelist.  The  first  fifteen  years 
of  her  life  were  spent  in  Ireland,  but,  except  in  her 


124  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

love  of  that  country,  her  appreciation  of  the  best 
points  of  the  Irish  character,  her  ardent  endeavours 
to  amend  its  faults,  and  benefit  the  people  in  days 
when  they  had  a  few  things  of  which  to  complain, 
she  was  as  little  what  we  are  accustomed  to  call  Irish 
as  any  one  I  ever  knew.  She  was  not  voluble  of 
speech,  though  what  she  said  was  sure  to  be  to  the 
purpose  ;  she  was  also  eminently  just  as  well  as 
generous,  her  generosity  extending  to  taking  much 
trouble  for  those  she  desired  to  serve.  Conscious, 
as  she  once  owned  she  was,  of  her  "  own  value  in  the 
Row,"  she  was  the  least  egotistic  of  authors,  and 
the  most  keenly  appreciative  of  every  sort  of  merit. 
Yet  she  never  indulged  in  "blarney,"  but  on  the 
contrary,  where  from  difference  of  age  or  circum- 
stances advice  was  becoming,  she  would  point  out 
a  fault  or  shortcoming  with  love  and  candour.  Clear- 
seeing  in  judging  of  character,  though  always  inclined 
to  think  the  best,  she  was  unwavering  in  her  attach- 
ments when  once  formed.  If  I  seem  to  exaggerate, 
let  me  repeat  what  one,  who  had  known  her  even 
longer  than  myself,  said,  as  summing  up  her  character 
after  her  death  in  1881 — "  Mrs.  Hall  was  an  angel." 

Her  husband,  Samuel  Carter  Hall,  the  art  critic 
and  prolific  writer,  who  gave  his  reminiscences  to 
the  world,  was  entirely  of  English  extraction,  but 
he  always  struck  me  as  being  intensely  Irish  in 
character.  Much  of  his  early  life  was  passed  in  the 
Emerald  Isle,  his  father,  an  officer  in  the  army,  having 


MR.  AND  MRS.  S.   C.   HALL.  125 

been  quartered  there.  S.  C.  Hall  did  not  always 
let  "discretion  wait"  upon  "the  valour"  of  his  warm 
impulsive  heart,  and  got  himself  misunderstood  and 
into  scrapes  accordingly.  Those,  however,  who  knew 
him  best  had  the  greatest  respect  and  warmest  regard 
for  him.  Both  were  born  in  1800,  so  that  they  were 
forty-two  when  I  first  knew  them,  and  I  thought 
him  one  of  the  handsomest  men  I  had  ever  seen — 
only  the  iron-grey  of  his  hair  indicating  that  he  was 
not  a  much  younger  man.  When  many  years  more 
than  fourscore  I  can  only  describe  him  as  beautiful. 
Mrs.  Barnard,  so  well  known  in  art  circles,  painted 
him  at  this  period,  with  his  long  white  locks  falling 
over  his  shoulders,  and  the  portrait  is  lifelike. 

Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  must  have  been  very  pretty  when 
young,  and  at  all  ages  had  a  fine  expression  of 
countenance,  though  perhaps  her  forehead  was  a  little 
too  massive  to  harmonize  with  the  general  idea  of 
feminine  beauty.  There  are  many  excellent  photo- 
graphs of  her,  but  the  painting  by  Mclan,  taken 
when  she  was  about  eight  and  thirty  years  of  age, 
represents  her  most  truly  as  what  she  appeared  for 
the  next  few  years.  In  those  days  photography  was 
not,  but  many  of  the  engravings  from  Mclan's 
portrait  must  be  in  existence,  though  probably  not 
in  the  possession  of  the  original  owners. 

When  I  first  knew  the  Halls  they  occupied  a 
charming  little  house  at  Brompton,  called  the 
Rosery,  from  the  flowers  which  in  the  blooming 


126  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

season  almost  covered  the  front  of  it.  A  cottage 
orn£  it  certainly  was,  with,  for  its  size,  a  rather 
spacious  hall,  where  always  there  were  works  of  art 
to  arrest  the  eye.  To  the  right  was  the  dining-room, 
which  opened  into  a  much  larger  apartment,  the 
drawing-room.  A  baize  door  masking  an  inner  door 
led  from  the  drawing-room  to  Mrs.  Hall's  study, 
which  I  believe  had  been  built  for  her  at  the  side 
of  the  original  dwelling  with  a  thick  wall  facing  the 
road.  For  Mrs.  Hall  was  one  of  the  brain-workers 
who  could  only  work  in  absolute  silence  and  freedom 
from  distraction,  and  it  was  her  habit  to  avoid  morn- 
ing conversation,  and  breakfast  in  her  dressing-room, 
then  give  instructions  for  the  day  to  her  servants, 
and  pass  into  her  study  at  ten  o'clock,  where  on  no 
pretence  was  she  to  be  interrupted.  If  letters  came 
they  were  to  be  reserved  for  her  until  two  o'clock, 
when  her  morning's  work  would  be  done.  The 
study,  as  well  as  the  drawing-room,  looked  out  on  a 
large,  well-kept  old-fashioned  garden,  such  as  many 
of  the  dwellers  in  far  more  pretentious  abodes  might 
envy.  The  aspect  being  north,  with  no  glittering 
sunshine  to  disturb  and  distract,  I  can  well  under- 
stand the  calm  so  necessary  for  concentrated  thought 
that  Mrs.  Hall  found  in  her  study.  She  herself  told 
me  how  necessary  absolute  quiet  was  to  her,  con- 
trasting her  own  idiosyncrasy  with  that  of  Miss 
Edgeworth,  who  always  wrote  in  the  family  sitting- 
room,  amid  the  chatter  and  going  and  coming  of 


MR.  AND  MRS.  S.    C.   HALL.  127 

the  family.  Mrs.  Hall  venerated  Miss  Edgeworth, 
whom  she  knew  well,  and  she  had  once  an  interview 
with  Hannah  More,  whom  she  described  as  a  little 
old  woman  dressed  in  green,  and  courteous  and 
kindly. 

For  many  years  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  was  always  "  at 
home  "  on  Thursdays  in  the  afternoon  till  about  five 
o'clock,  and  from  seven  or  eight  o'clock  until  eleven. 
Hours  were  much  earlier  in  those  days,  and  the 
Halls  especially  made  a  stand  against  late  entertain- 
ments. They  tried  to  set  an  example,  but  failed,  I 
fear,  in  being  followed,  by  always  arriving  at  parties 
as  nearly  as  possible  at  the  hour  the  invitation  named, 
and  resolutely  leaving  about  eleven.  It  was  well 
understood  that  they  did  not  wish  their  own  guests 
to  prolong  their  stay  into  the  small  hours,  and  so 
unfit  them  for  the  next  day's  duties. 

In  the  "early  forties"  London  life,  in  what  may 
be  called  the  upper  or  gentle  middle-class,  moved 
in  altogether  a  different  groove  from  what  it  does 
now.  People  of  letters,  and  artists  especially,  very 
often  dined  at  four  and  five  o'clock,  or  even  earlier, 
and  frequently  there  were  early  social  gatherings  of 
congenial  friends,  where  the  entertainment  was  in- 
formal and  inexpensive  ;  but,  of  all  such,  I  remember 
none  so  delightful  as  those  at  the  Rosery.  Let  me 
describe  a  few  of  the  personages  I  met  on  these 
occasions. 

One  evening  in  1843,  Mrs.  Hall  brought  up  to  me 


128  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

to  introduce  a  tall  slender  girl  of  seventeen,  with 
graceful  mien  and  fine  grey  eyes  that,  once  seen, 
were  not  to  be  forgotten.  They  always  seemed  to 
be  looking  out  on  objects  more  serene  than  those 
before  her.  This  was  Dinah  Maria  Mulock,  then  a 
young  aspirant,  full  of  hero-worship  of  the  great  and 
good  of  every  order,  and  destined  to  be  known  as 
the  author  of  "  John  Halifax,  Gentleman,"  and  one 
of  the  most  successful  novelists  of  her  day.  I  lost 
sight  of  her  for  a  time,  but  some  two  or  three  years 
later  we  became  very  intimate.  She  consulted  me 
about  adopting  literature  as  an  earnest  pursuit,  and 
I  had  seen  such  indications  of  her  genius  that  I  gave 
her  the  warmest  encouragement.  There  was  some- 
thing very  interesting  about  her,  and  she  had  the 
faculty  of  quickly  making  friends.  I  remember 
taking  her  with  me  as  an  uninvited  guest  to  a 
conversazione  at  the  Westland  Marstons,  I  being 
sufficiently  intimate  with  them  to  venture  on  such 
a  liberty,  and  feeling  well  assured  they  would  like  to 
know  her.  The  result  even  exceeded  my  expectations ; 
by  the  end  of  the  evening  she  seemed  to  have  won 
their  hearts,  and  before  a  month  had  passed  she  was 
looked  on  as  an  habituee,  welcome  at  all  seasons.  It 
was  a  friendship  that  had  happy  results,  winning  her 
many  influential  literary  friends. 

Sometimes  there  were  evenings  at  the  Rosery,  for 
which  express  invitations  were  sent,  and  at  one  of 
these,  in  1845,  I  met  Thomas  Moore,  and  thought 


THOMAS  MOORE.  129 

it  a  high  honour  to  be  introduced  to  him.  At  this 
time  he  was  sixty-five  years  of  age,  carrying  his 
years  well.  Yet  there  was  a  weather-beaten  look 
about  his  face  that  generally  adds  to  the  appearance 
of  age.  I  was  very  familiar,  through  engravings, 
with  the  face  of  the  Irish  poet,  and  certainly  the 
painters  who  had  taken  his  likeness  had  been 
eminently  successful,  catching  the  expression  of  his 
countenance  and  that  peculiar  turn  of  the  head 
which  gave  the  look  which,  in  a  soldier,  would  be 
called  "attention."  Of  course  he  was  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  and  I  had  plenty  of  time  to  notice 
him.  After  awhile  Mrs.  Hall  took  my  hand  rather 
suddenly,  raising  me  from  my  chair,  and,  drawing  me 
a  few  paces  to  where  Mr.  Moore  was  standing,  said 
playfully,  "  Here  is  another."  He  put  out  his  hand 
and  smiled,  and  spoke  a  few  pleasant  words,  I  believe, 
as  I  suppose  he  had  already  done  to  twenty  people — 
and  I  confess  that  to  this  day  I  like  to  remember 
that  I  have  shaken  hands  with  the  author  of  the 
surely  deathless  "  Irish  Melodies,"  of  the  admirable 
"  Life  of  Byron,"  of  the  too  little-known  poem,  "  My 
Birthday,"  and  of  "Lalla  Rookh,"  which,  in  my  youth, 
I  was  romantic  enough  greatly  to  enjoy.  Unquestion- 
ably it  has  merits  of  Eastern  colouring,  purity  of 
sentiment,  and  brightness  of  fancy  and  imagination, 
of  which  a  mature  critic  may  approve  ;  not  to  mention 
the  delightful  humour  with  which  the  character  of 
Fadladeen  is  sustained.  But  Moore  was  something 

K 


130  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

besides  a  poet,  and  I  feel  that  even  under  the  roof 
of  his  old  friends  he  would  rather  have  had  a  quiet 
talk  with  any  sensible  person,  on  any  sensible  subject, 
than  have  been  made  the  "  lion  "  of  a  party. 

I  may  mention  here  a  circumstance  which  Mr.  Hall 
related  twenty  years  later.  Walking  in  the  garden 
with  Tom  Moore,  when  he  was  quite  an  old  man, 
the  subject  of  Little's  "  Poems  "  came  up,  and  the 
poet  shed  tears  while  reflecting  on  the  "sin  of  his 
youth."  I  wonder  if  certain  writers  of  the  present 
day  will  ever  have  the  grace  to  do  the  like  ! 

I  have  alluded  to  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall  having  been 
frequently  misunderstood.  By  indomitable  energy 
and  perseverance  he  had  carried  to  a  successful  issue 
so  many  difficult  undertakings  that  his  sanguine 
nature  made  him  sometimes  over  confident  as  to  his 
power  of  bringing  to  maturity  embryo  schemes. 
Ideas  were  started  which  other  people  took  up,  and 
when  he  claimed  to  have  been  the  original  suggester, 
he  was  not  always  believed.  But  if  his  mind  was 
not  as  evenly  balanced  as  that  of  his  wife,  he  had 
many  of  her  fine  qualities.  As,  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  a  writer  in  the  Standard  said,  "  Their  business 
and  employment  in  life  was  to  do  good  and  promote 
good  by  taking  interest  in  all  that  can  make  men 
and  women  wiser,  happier,  and  better."  They  did 
this  not  only  by  their  pens,  but  by  the  exercise  of 
that  personal  influence  which  circumstances  placed 
largely  in  their  power. 


"  THE  ART  JOURNAL?  131 

To  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall  a  debt  of  gratitude  is  due  from 
the  public  at  large  for  at  least  forty  years  of  strenuous 
exertion  in  elevating  among  all  classes  their  standard 
of  Art.     I  am  old  enough  to   remember  the   false 
taste  which  prevailed,  and  the  really  hideous  objects 
which   in   daily  use   were  tolerated   among  a  class 
— since  so  instructed — that  is  now  quick  to  recognize 
the  fitting   and   the  beautiful.       Mr.   Hall,   through 
the  medium  of  the  Art  Journal,  was  a  great  factor 
in  working  the  change.     Not  only  was  he  quick  in 
recognizing  artistic  talent,  and  giving  it  the  help  of 
praise  and  publicity,  but  from  a  very  early  period 
he  made  it   his   aim   to  cultivate   the   taste  of  the 
poor  and  lowly  for  "  things  of  beauty,"  that  should 
confer   on   them    a   pure   pleasure    untasted   before. 
Of  course  we  know   the  beauty   and  value  of  old 
china;  but  sixty  years  ago  the  beautiful  in  pottery 
was  always  the  costly.     It  is  not  so  now,  at  any  rate 
so  far  as  form  is  concerned  ;  and  Mr.  Hall  did  much 
to   stimulate   manufacturers   of    all   descriptions    to 
employ  true  artists  for  designers,  and  produce  cheap 
articles  which  should  still  be  graceful. 
.    No  wonder  the  Halls  had  a  large  circle  of  friends 
and    acquaintances,    and    that    weekly    receptions, 
during  a  great  part  of  the  year,  were  in  a  measure 
necessary  to  hold  it  together.     Of  course  the  people 
who  had  general  invitations  did  not  avail  themselves 
of  their  privilege  too  often,  or  a  crowd  would  certainly 
have  overflowed  into  the   highway   or   garden ;   but 


132  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

those  meetings  were  delightful,  nevertheless.  Nume- 
rous artists,  Royal  Academicians,  and  others  were 
among  the  usual  guests,  and  I  have  often  listened 
with  great  interest  to  discussions  that  were  going  on 
concerning  new  pictures  or  statues.  Authors  already 
famous — or  destined  to  be  so — were  sure  to  be 
present,  with,  perhaps,  two  or  three  personages  with 
"handles  to  their  names,"  who  liked  such  society, 
and  it  might  be  two  or  three  eminent  publishers. 

One  little  anecdote  I  will  mention,  because  it  so 
well  illustrates  Mrs.  Hall's  kindliness  of  nature  and 
excellent  common  sense.  Some  lady — I  really  forget 
who  it  was — to  whom  I  had  been  introduced  one 
evening  by  Mrs.  Hall,  asked  me  to  visit  her.  Of 
course  I  duly  acknowledged  her  courtesy ;  but  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  I  mentioned  the  circumstance 
to  our  hostess,  saying,  I  suppose,  "Would  you  like  me 
to  go  ?  "  or  something  equivalent,  to  which  Mrs.  Hall 
replied,  with  a  half-scolding  smile — 

"  My  dear,  I  am  never  guilty  of  the  absurdity  of 
bringing  people  together  and  then  trying  to  keep 
them  apart." 

How  pleasant  these  words  made  all  future  gather- 
ings under  that  hospitable  roof ;  for  I  was  destined 
to  make  many  warm  friends  whom  I  had  first  met 
at  the  Rosery  ! 

When  I  went  alone  to  the  Thursday  evenings,  as 
I  sometimes  did,  Mrs.  Hall  always  provided  me  with 
an  escort  as  far  as  Sloane  Street,  there  to  see  me 


JE.  M.    WARD,   R.A.  133 

into  a  vehicle  which  should  take  me  home ;  for  these 
meetings  were  not  full-dress  affairs,  and  many  of  the 
lady  guests  came  in  walking  attire.  On  several  of 
these  occasions  my  escort  was  E.  M.  Ward,  not  then 
a  Royal  Academician,  but  a  young  artist  of  whom 
great  things  were  already  expected.  Subsequently 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  him  and  his  beautiful 
and  charming  wife  intimately,  and  delighted  in  the 
privilege  of  being  admitted  into  his  studio.  I  re- 
member on  one  occasion  his  showing  me  a  cast  of 
the  face  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  and  pointing  out 
the  great  resemblance  it  bore  to  our  beloved  Queen. 
He  made  use  of  this  cast  in  painting  his  "  Death  of 
Rizzio,"  which  is  surely  one  of  his  finest  works,  not 
forgetting  the  three  or  four  which  may  perhaps  be 
considered  its  peers.  There  is  a  fine  touch  in  the 
"  Death  of  Rizzio,"  which  perhaps  escapes  a  hurried 
gaze.  I  mean  the  slight  bending  of  the  flames  of  the 
candles  on  the  table,  indicating  the  draught  from  the 
staircase  through  the  door  by  which  the  conspirators 
are  entering.  It  is  astonishing  the  life  this  little 
incident  gives  to  the  picture. 

I  believe  a  new  school  has  arisen  since  E.  M.  Ward 
was  in  the  height  of  his  popularity ;  but  it  is  pleasant 
to  know  that  many  of  his  works  enrich  our  National 
Gallery,  and  to  believe  that  while  the  true  and 
pathetic  in  art  are  appreciated — and  such  appreciation 
must  be  looked  for  through  all  time — E.  M.  Ward's 
worth  will  be  recognized. 


134  LANDMARKS  OF  A    LITERARY  LIFE. 

Turning  over  some  old  letters  lately,  I  came  un- 
expectedly on  one  from  Dinah  Mulock,  which  recalls 
vividly  a  particular  evening  at  the  Rosery — not  one 
of  the  open  Thursdays,  but  a  party  to  which  guests 
were  specially  invited.  The  letter  bears  the  date 
of  June,  1847,  at  which  time  the  writer  and  I  lived 
not  far  apart,  and  had  become  so  intimate  that  we 
generally  met  twice  or  thrice  a  week.  Also  we  went 
out  together  a  good  deal,  for  I  was  sufficiently  her 
senior  to  play  the  elder  sister's  part  when  my  mother 
was  not  with  us.  After  the  usual  affectionate  greet- 
ing, she  writes — 

"  I  have  a  message  to  you  from  Mrs.  Hall ;  she 
was  just  going  to  write  and  invite  you  to  a  party  on 
next  Friday  week,  nth  of  June,  to  meet  Jenny  Lind, 
and  I  don't  know  whom  besides,  I  being  one  of  the 
happy  number.  She  asked  me  to  tell  you  this,  and 
ask  you  when  I  saw  you  to-morrow.  Now,  dear,  will 
you  sacrifice  Mrs.  Loudon,  and  go  ?  For  many 
reasons  it  would  be  a  sore  disappointment  to  me  to 
miss  it,  for  I  go  not  without  thee.  Here's  selfish- 
ness ;  but  I  think  the  Mrs.  L—  -  family  might  stand 
over  for  another  week,  and  Jenny  Lind  is  a  bird  not 
to  be  seen  in  every  hedge.  I  had  agreed  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Loudon's  with  Mrs.  Wills  and  Mr.  Masson,  but 
I  will  relinquish  all  for  the  Rosery  and  Jenny." 

The  writer  then  proceeds  to  tell  of  an  accident 
which  would  prevent  her  walking  for  a  few  days,  and 
was  the  cause  of  her  not  delivering  the  message  in 


JENNY  LIND.  135 

person.  Of  course  I  too  "  threw  over  "  Mrs.  Loudon, 
knowing  the  next  Friday  would  do  just  as  well,  and 
sharing  my  young  friend's  desire  to  meet  Jenny 
Lind. 

I  can  remember  many  a  furore,  but  never  anything 
so  warm  and  lasting  as  that  which  the  appearance 
of  Jenny  Lind  excited  ;  and  I  think  it  was  to  the 
honour  of  the  English  people  that  it  was  not  only 
the  rare  voice  of  the  "  Swedish  Nightingale  "  which 
so  stirred  them,  but  that  the  generous,  self-denying 
character  with  which  she  was  justly  credited,  com- 
bined with  her  artistic  gifts  to  render  her  nearly 
angelic  in  their  eyes.  Long  ago  as  it  is,  I  well 
remember  that  "  Jenny  Lind  evening  "  at  the  Rosery. 
The  party  was  not  a  very  large  one.  The  rooms 
were  pleasantly  full,  but  not  so  crowded  as  I  had 
often  known  them  on  the  Thursday  evenings,  and 
I  think  both  Dinah  Mulock  and  I  felt  honoured  in 
being  invited  to  a  very  select  party.  I  know  there 
were  several  notabilities  present,  but  I  do  not  re- 
collect their  names.  There  seemed  a  hush  of  con- 
versation for  awhile,  as  if  there  were  a  brooding  fear 
that  the  expected  cynosure  would  disappoint  its 
worshippers — as  cynosures  are  a  little  apt  to  do. 
But  no  ;  I  do  not  think  the  Nightingale  was  espe- 
cially late — I  rather  think  all  other  guests  had  arrived 
unusually  early. 

At  last,  with  a  sufficiently  loud  voice,  "  Miss  Lind  " 
was  announced — Miss  Lind  and ,  I  quite  forget 


136  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

the  chaperon's  name,  but  she  had  a  chaperon,  I  know 
— and  the  simple-mannered,  simply  attired,  smiling 
girl  advanced   into   the   room,  shaking   hands  with 
host  and  hostess,  and  two  or  three  other  personages 
known  to  her.     Of  course  several  introductions  took 
place,  but  Mrs.  Hall  had  always  excellent  tact,  and 
she  seemed  to  shield  her  guest  from  anything  like 
obtrusive  attention.     Yet,  as  the  evening  wore  on, 
one  could  see  that  Jenny  Lind  was  pleased — pleased 
with  that  childlike  pleasure,  the  liking  to  be  liked, 
for  she  had  not  an  atom  of  mock  humility,  which  is 
surely  only  an  offensive  form  of  pride.    As  every  one 
knew,  she  was  under  a  deed  not  to  sing  in  private, 
but  she  looked  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  burst 
into  song  and  delight  the  people  who  were  so  good 
to  her.    She  carried  a  charming  bouquet  in  her  hand, 
not  one  of  the  formal  Covent  Garden  Market  affairs, 
in  which  the  flowers  always  look  crowded  and  un- 
comfortable, and  which  would  have  seemed  incon- 
gruous with  the  simplicity  of  Jenny  Lind,  but  hers 
was  a  bouquet  composed  of  a  few  choice  flowers  tied 
firmly  yet  lightly  together  with  a  blue  ribbon — so 
lightly   or    informally   that    I    remember    the   roses 
nodded.     Even   idol-worship  must  come  to  an  end> 
and  Jenny  Lind,  the  last  guest  to  arrive,  was  pro- 
bably the   first   to  depart.     When   she  was   taking 
leave,  some  adventurous  admirer  begged  for  a  flower 
from  her  bouquet ;  others  followed  the  example,  till 
the   last    blossom   was    bestowed,   then    the   ribbon 


JENNY  LIND.  137 

dropped  on  the  floor,  and  for  it  there  was  a  scramble. 
Jenny's  pale  face  flushed  as  she  gave  the  flowers,  and 
her  beaming  eyes  lighted  up  her  homely  features,  till 
she  looked  what  I  heard  an  artist  call  her,  beautiful. 
Then  with  a  graceful  movement  to  the  little  throng 
about  her — a  movement  that  was  half  a  bow  and  half 
a  curtsy — she  hurried  away  from  her  admirers.  No 
doubt  the  simply  arranged  bouquet  was  formed  from 
the  floral  offerings  of  the  night  before. 

At  that  time  I  had  not  seen  Jenny  Lind  on  the 
stage  ;  and  when  I  did  I  confess  I  was  just  a  little 
disappointed ;  not  with  her  singing,  for  that  was 
beyond  all  ordinary  praise,  but  with  her  acting.  To 
be  sure,  I  only  saw  her  once,  and  that  was  in  "  Lucia," 
a  character  probably  too  tragic  for  her  genius.  I 
could  not  but  think  of  Grisi  .and  Malibran,  and  the 
passions  they  realized  by  a  mere  gesture. 

At  this  time  Jenny  Lind  looked  fragile  and  younger 
then  six  and  twenty,  which  I  believe  was  her  age. 
Her  health  was  said  to  be  delicate,  and  she  had  the 
vocalist's  natural  dread  of  colds.  To  guard  against 
them,  she  was  reported  to  wrap  up  immensely  in  the 
winter.  I  heard  an  amusing  account  of  an  afternoon 
visit  she  paid  when,  without  mentioning  a  carriage 
rug,  a  fur-lined  cloak  was  left  in  the  hall,  and  a  shawl 
discarded  at  the  drawing-room  door,  she  remaining 
still  warmly  equipped. 

Another  evening  at  the  Halls  I  will  briefly  de- 
scribe for  the  sake  of  one  little  incident,  though  in 


138  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

doing  so  I  leap  over  nearly  ten  years.  At  this  date 
my  dear  friends  occupied  a  many-roomed  "flat"  in 
London,  instead  of  the  pretty  Rosery  ;  but  their 
receptions  were  of  the  same  character,  though,  alas ! 
many  of  the  old  faces  were  missing.  But  as  stars  set 
on  the  western  horizon  others  rise  on  the  east ;  and 
so  it  is  with  the  firmament  of  art  and  letters.  On 
the  evening  of  which  I  am  telling,  Rosa  Bonheur 
was  one  of  the  guests.  She  had  recently  become 
famous  from  the  exhibition  of  her  great  picture, 
"  The  Horse  Fair,"  and  I  regarded  her  with  immense 
interest  and  admiration.  Only  about  the  middle 
height,  she  yet  looked  so  robust  that  one  could  fancy 
her  curbing  the  fiery  horses  she  so  forcibly  depicts. 
Very  handsome,  with  fine  dark  eyes,  and  the  short 
crisp  curls  which  were  not  then  the  feminine  fashion, 
her  head  looked  somewhat  like  that  of  a  man,  espe- 
cially as  she  wore  a  high  black  dress.  It  was  evident 
she  was  a  woman  who  dared  and  determined  to 
despise  the  troublesome  fripperies  of  ordinary 
women's  dress.  I  was  seated  very  near  the  great 
French  painter,  when  Mrs.  Hall  brought  up  Sir 
Edwin  Landseer  to  introduce  him  to  her.  I  could 
not  but  be  interested  in  the  meeting  of  these  two 
famous  animal-painters.  The  conversation  was  in 
French,  and  there  seemed  to  be  on  both  sides 
genuine  gratification  in  seeing  each  other,  with 
mutual  felicitations  on  their  achievements.  I  never 
heard  if  the  acquaintance  grew  into  intimacy  and 


MR.  AND  MRS.  HALL'S  GOLDEN  WEDDING.      139 

friendship,  but  I  am  sure  they  must  have  felt  much 
sympathy,  and  were  both  too  great  for  jealousy  to 
mar  it.  Both  were  supreme  in  showing  the  mentality 
of  the  animals  they  depicted  and  must  have  loved 
so  well. 

Few  people  can  have  been  more  loved  and  honoured 
than  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall ;  and  they  must 
have  felt  that  it  was  so  when,  in  1874,  their  golden 
wedding  was  celebrated.  Hardworking  as  they  had 
been,  they  were  too  liberal  to  have  become  rich,  and 
the  testimonial  which  was  subscribed  for  them  on 
the  occasion,  when  sunk  for  a  life  annuity,  made  a 
very  acceptable  addition  to  their  income.  In  being 
the  medium  for  presenting  it,  Lord  Shaftesbury 
spoke  of  them  as  his  "  august  friends."  The  2oth 
of  September  falling  on  a  Sunday,  the  golden 
wedding  was  kept  on  the  following  day.  My  own 
health  was  already  so  failing  that  it  was  something 
of  an  effort  to  journey  from  Blackheath  to  Kensing- 
ton, but  neither  my  husband  nor  I  would  willingly 
have  foregone  the  privilege  awarded  us  of  offering 
our  congratulations  in  person.  It  was  a  memorable 
day.  I  heard  that  twelve  hundred  invitations  had 
been  sent  out — announcements  would,  perhaps,  be 
the  better  word — but  in  September  a  large  propor- 
tion of  Londoners  were  of  course  out  of  town.  Still, 
there  was  for  many  hours  always  a  throng  of  well- 
wishers  in  the  little  house,  the  first  comers  having 
the  grace  in  due  order  to  depart  as  the  rooms  became 


140  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

crowded.  To  me,  who  had  known  the  wedded  pair 
so  long  and  so  well,  the  scene  was  very  pathetic. 
New  friends  were  present — but  many  of  the  old  ones  ; 
some  I  had  not  met  for  nearly  twenty  years,  and  who 
were  even  more  advanced  in  age  than  myself,  had 
rallied  to  the  call. 

I  have  spoken  of  Dinah  Maria  Mulock — subse- 
quently the  author  of  "John  Halifax" — in  connection 
with  the  Jenny  Lind  evening.  In  the  winter  of  1847 
and  the  spring  of  1848  we  were  much  together,  having 
many  common  friends  and  mutual  interests.  During 
this  period  she  wrote  several  small  articles  for  maga- 
zines, and  commenced  her  first  novel, "The  Ogilvies," 
as  the  months  passed  on  devoting  herself  mainly  to 
the  latter  work.  At  this  time  she  evinced  a  certain 
steadfastness  of  purpose  which  I  admired  without 
being  strong  enough  to  imitate.  There  must  be  plenty 
of  people  living  who  can  remember  the  political 
excitement  which  prevailed  in  the  last  week  of  the 
February  and  the  March  of  1848,  when  Louis  Philippe 
was  hurled  from  his  throne,  and  when  for  days  at  a 
time  there  was  uncertainty  about  the  fate  of  many 
distinguished  personages.  For  my  own  part  I  could 
not  rest  or  settle  satisfactorily  to  mental  employment 
until  I  had  heard  the  latest  news  of  the  stirring  events 
which  were  making  history.  Of  course  I  could  well 
remember  the  July  days  of  eighteen  years  before,  the 
second  French  Revolution  as  it  was  called,  as  well  as 
hearing  all  my  life  discussed,  as  familiar  topics,  the 


DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK.  141 

consulate,  the  empire,  and  the  restoration  which  had 
led  up  to  that  event.  These  memories  may  have 
warmed  and  intensified  my  interest  in  what  was 
passing ;  still,  when  I  knew  the  worst,  or  best  of  the 
latest  intelligence,  I  could,  to  a  great  extent,  abstract 
my  mind  from  it,  and  settle  to  literary  work.  It  was 
the  anxiety  and  uncertainty  which  set  me  wondering 
and  imagining,  to  the  distraction  of  my  mind. 

In  contrast  to  my  weakness  was  Dinah  Mulock's 
strength.  She  could  abstain  three  days  at  a  time 
from  reading  a  newspaper,  and  when  she  did  hear  the 
latest  intelligence  she  received  it  with  apparent  tran- 
quillity. Not  I  am  sure,  that  she  was  insensible  to 
any  sort  of  suffering,  or  ignorant  of  the  widely  spread- 
ing changes  that  revolution  brings  about,  but  she  had 
determined  to  live  mainly  in  the  work  which  she  was 
about.  Besides,  she  was  not  yet  quite  two  and  twenty 
— too  young  to  be  a  politician,  though  not  to  be  a 
novelist.  Surely  her  faculty  of  concentration  was  a 
great  gift !  When  she  consented  to  be  my  bridesmaid 
in  the  following  July,  her  novel  must  have  been 
almost  completed,  and  her  mind  must  at  any  rate 
have  been  free  enough  to  take  a  most  affectionate 
interest  in  my  marriage. 


142  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Lough  the  sculptor — Leigh  Hunt — Robert  Browning — 
Douglas  Jerrold — Albert  Smith. 

IT  was  in  the  summer  of  1842  that  I,  in  company  with 
two  friends,  had  first  the  privilege  of  visiting  Lough's 
studio.  It  has  remained  a  never-to-be-forgotten  event. 
I  remember  even  the  sort  of  day  it  was,  not  fierce  and 
glaring,  but  with  the  sunshine  slightly  veiled  by 
clouds,  so  that  the  light  was  steady  and  subdued,  the 
very  light  by  which  to  see  sculpture  to  perfection. 
The  works  I  may  have  occasion  to  mention  are  well 
before  the  world,  but  I  hope  some  description  of  the 
sculptor  himself  may  be  acceptable.  Born  in  1798, 
John  Graham  Lough  must  have  been  forty-four  years 
old  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  but  he  scarcely 
looked  his  age.  Indeed  I  think  it  is  a  characteristic 
of  genius,  at  any  rate  artistic  genius,  to  wear  well  in 
this  respect.  A  handsome  man  he  was,  about,  or  a 
little  above,  the  middle  height,  with  magnificent  eyes 
that  lighted  up  the  whole  countenance,  and  altogether 
a  picturesque  figure  in  his  working  dress  of  blouse 
and  cap.  As  is  well  known,  Lough  was  of  humble 


LOUGH  THE  SCULPTOR.  143 

though  respectable  origin  ;  but  he  was  one  of  the  few 
of  what  are  called  self-made  men  that  in  my  long 
life  I  have  ever  known  who  were  completely  gentle- 
men. There  was  an  ingrained  kindliness  in  his 
nature  which  rendered  him  always  courteous  and  con- 
siderate for  others  ;  and  perceiving  that  his  visitors 
had  some  real  appreciation  of  art,  he  gratified  them  in 
many  ways.  I  do  not  believe  mere  haphazard  praise 
would  have  given  him  the  least  satisfaction,  rather 
would  it  have  chilled  him  and  fettered  his  tongue. 
I  may  observe  that  he  spoke  well,  with  great  purity 
of  diction,  though  a  slight  north-country  burr  was 
perceptible.  He  had  begun  the  Shakespeare  series 
some  time  previously,  and  the  Ophelia  and  lago 
were  already  created;  and  we  saw  the  Milo — that 
grand  statue,  which,  executed  under  so  many  diffi- 
culties, first  drew  attention  to  his  power — as  well  as 
the  Roman  girl,  and  Samson,  and  a  host  of  other 
works  which  helped  to  make  his  fame. 

This  chance  visit  to  the  studio  led  to  my  knowing 
Mrs.  Lough,  and  for  many  years  I  was  a  frequent 
visitor  at  their  house,  seeing  closely  a  great  deal  of 
their  happy  private  life,  as  well  as  always  being 
aware  of  what  was  going  on  in  the  studio.  When 
the  sculptor  had  just  completed  in  the  clay  some  new 
work,  it  was  their  habit  to  invite  a  few  chosen  friends 
to  inspect  it.  How  proud  I  always  felt  to  be  included  ! 
The  party  generally  numbered  eight  or  ten,  who 
met  in  the  studio  about  four  o'clock.  Mr.  Jerdan, 


144  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

of  the  Literary  Gazette,  and  other  men  of  letters,  who 
professed  to  be  art  critics,  came  to  pass  their  opinion 
before  it  was  too  late  to  be  of  service  ;  and  the  sculptor 
always  listened  eagerly  for  any  suggestion,  which  he 
was  sure  to  weigh  attentively.  Indeed,  there  always 
seemed  to  me,  notwithstanding  his  sturdy  manliness, 
a  feminine  fibre  in  his  nature  which  demanded  real 
sympathy  ;  and  when  he  perceived,  by  some  brief 
expression,  that  his  work  was  understood  and  appre- 
ciated, his  face  beamed,  and  he  showed  a  childlike 
delight.  He  was  not  a  vain  man,  but  of  course  he 
knew  his  own  power  ;  and  it  was  only  the  praise  that 
had  in  it  the  ring  of  a  true  understanding  of  the 
subject  that  gave  him  pleasure. 

One  of  the  occasions  I  am  now  describing  was 
when  that  pathetic  group  of  the  dead  soldier,  with 
his  wife  and  his  horse  leaning  over  him,  was  in  the 
clay.  Strange  to  say,  the  sculptor  had  not  found  for 
it  a  name  that  pleased  him,  and  he  asked  his  friends 
to  help  him  to  one  if  they  could.  Two  or  three 
unsatisfactory  titles  were  proposed,  but  luckily  the 
youngest  of  the  party  suggested  that  it  should  be 
called  "  The  Two  Mourners."  The  name,  shortened 
to  "  The  Mourners,"  was  adopted,  and  by  it  the  work 
so  deservedly  admired  has  ever  been  known. 

After  revelling  in  the  studio  for  an  hour  or  two  the 
ladies  were  always  invited  to  "  take  off  their  bonnets  " 
— ladies  wore  bonnets  in  those  days — and  we,  in  our 
walking  dresses,  and  the  gentlemen  in  their  morning 


LOUGH  THE  SCULPTOR.  145 

coats,  sat  down  to  dinner,  generally  as  loquacious  and 
merry  a  party  as  could  be  conceived.  I  think  almost 
every  subject  under  the  sun  was  freely  discussed  at 
that  table,  though  the  dominant  ones  were  certainly 
art  and  literature.  Mr.  Lough,  aided  by  his  admirable 
wife,  was  one  of  the  most  delightful  hosts  I  ever  knew, 
either  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  these  friendly  gather- 
ings or  of  a  more  formal  dinner-party,  such  as  they 
often  gave.  He  bore  his  own  fair  share  in  the  conversa- 
tion without  usurping  it,  and  had  the  tact  to  draw  forth 
the  resources  of  his  guests.  Among  his  friends  was 
the  lamented  Professor  Forbes,  who  died  young,  and 
whose  mind  grasped  science,  and  yet  expanded  to 
the  appreciation  of  art. 

Looking  back  on  those  days,  I  certainly  think 
there  was  much  less  cynicism  in  conversation  than  is 
to  be  found  now.  Witty,  satirical  things  were  often 
enough  said,  and  gave  a  zest  to  the  "  feast  of  reason 
and  the  flow  of  soul,"  but  they  were  generally  without 
malice.  Honest  enthusiasm  was  not  then  called 
"gush,"  and  to  be  a  "hero  worshipper"  was  not 
thought  "snobbish."  L.  E.  L.  was  inspired  to 
write  verses  on  Lough's  works ;  and  the  greatest  of 
all  poetesses,  Mrs.  Browning,  has  embalmed  his 
name  in  her  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship."  Lough 
had  the  soul  of  a  poet,  which  is  revealed  in  those 
ideal  works  which  are  mostly  in  private  collections. 
I  mean  such  works  as  the  Shakespeare  series,  or  his 
"  Milo  "  or  "  Satan."  The  matter-of-fact  chilled  him, 

L 


146  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

and  when  bound  down  to  the  real  he  was  not  at  his 
best.  It  was  delightful  to  hear  him  talk  of  Shake- 
speare, and  Milton,  and  of  Wordsworth,  of  whom  he 
made  a  portrait  bust.  In  art,  he  supremely  revered 
Michael  Angelo,  and  he  spoke  eloquently  of  his  long 
sojourn  in  Rome,  at  a  time  when  tourists  were  not 
"  personally  conducted "  to  the  Eternal  City,  but 
when  rarely  any  but  the  mentally  cultivated  ever 
visited  it.  The  younger  of  their  two  daughters  was 
but  a  few  weeks  old  when  the  little  family  left 
England  for  Italy. 

Mrs.  Lough  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  Rev. 
Henry  North,  and  a  woman  singularly  well  qualified 
to  make  the  sculptor  happy.  He  appreciated  her 
excellence  to  the  full ;  and  I  was  told  that  early  in 
their  married  life  he  let  it  be  understood  that  he  did 
not  accept  invitations  in  which  his  wife  was  not 
included.  Consequently,  when  he  was  the  guest  of 
some  noble  or  influential  patron,  Mrs.  Lough  was 
always  with  him.  I  believe  there  was  one  baronet, 
of  great  wealth,  who  spent  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
thousand  pounds  on  Lough's  works,  with  whom  they 
sometimes  stayed  for  days  at  a  time. 

But  Mrs.  Lough  was  much  more  than  the  society 
helpmate  of  her  husband.  Being  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  them,  I  knew  how  completely  she  lifted 
all  burthens  of  worldly  concerns  from  his  shoulders, 
leaving  the  man  of  genius  to  revel  in  his  paradise  of 
poetic  and  creative  ideas.  She  even  kept  studio 


MRS.  LOUGH.  147 

accounts,  and  paid  weekly  Lough's  able  assistants ; 
and  I  remember  hearing  him  say  that  he  was  not  quite 
sure  what  was  the  rent  of  his  house.  Perhaps  this 
was  a  little  playful  exaggeration,  meant  to  convey 
the  idea  of  his  perfect  trust  in  his  wife's  wisdom  and 
goodness,  and  of  his  entire  reliance  on  her  in  mundane 
affairs.  Often  and  often  genius  is  cruelly  crippled 
just  for  the  want  of  such  help  as  she  devotedly 
bestowed. 

Mrs.  Lough  long  survived  her  husband  and  both 
her  daughters,  reaching  her  four  score  years.  In  the 
early  days  of  her  widowhood,  she  presented  the 
whole  collection  of  her  husband's  original  models  to 
the  city  of  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  knowing  that  it  had 
been  his  wish  that  they  should  be  preserved  in  his 
native  county.  She  stipulated,  however,  that  the 
corporation  should  erect  a  suitable  building  for  their 
reception,  to  be  called  the  Lough  Gallery ;  and  it  was 
a  grief  to  her  that  up  to  the  time  of  her  death 
nothing  of  the  sort  had  been  done.  At  present — 
1890 — the  models  are  exhibited  in  Elswick  Hall,  a 
large  country  house,  standing  in  grounds  which  are 
owned  by  the  corporation  as  a  People's  Park.  Thus 
situated,  these  beautiful  works  are  no  doubt  accessible 
to  numbers  of  persons,  but  still  the  conditions  of  the 
gift  are  unfulfilled,  and  it  is  scarcely  honoured  as  it 
should  be. 

It   was   at   the  Loughs'  table  that   I  first  met  a 


143  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

personage  whom  I  will  call  Mr.  Z.,  and  thus  avoid 
giving  pain  to  his  children  or  grandchildren,  if  any 
such  exist.  He  was  a  man  of  considerable  intellectual 
ability,  something  of  a  minor  poet,  a  good  conversa- 
tionalist, and  of  gentlemanlike  manners.  He  was  the 
first  person  I  ever  heard  speak  enthusiastically  and 
understandingly  of  Tennyson.  Apparently  in  easy 
circumstances,  he  moved  a  good  deal  in  literary 
society,  and  often  entertained  celebrities  at  his 
suburban  residence  ;  his  pretty  wife,  calm  mannered 
but  kindly,  being  an  agreeable  hostess.  No  one 
seemed  exactly  to  know  what  Mr.  Z.'s  occupation 
was,  beyond  the  fact  that  it  took  him  "  into  the  city  " 
every  day.  I  was  invited  to  their  house  on  one 
occasion,  and,  to  make  the  visit  more  easy,  was  offered 
a  bed ;  thus  in  the  after-breakfast  t§te-ct-t$te  next 
morning  with  Mrs.  Z.,  I  had  more  opportunity  of 
estimating  her  than  I  had  previously  had  in  seeing 
her  in  society.  I  remember  the  feeling  which  came 
over  me,  conveying  the  impression  that  she  was  not 
a  happy  woman.  I  think  there  were  two  or  three 
young  children ;  the  home  was  a  pleasant  one,  and 
her  husband  seemed  kind  and  attentive  to  her.  I 
wondered  if  I  were  right,  and  that  some  secret  sorrow 
possessed  her.  By  the  light  of  later  knowledge  I 
felt  no  doubt  that  her  sorrow  was  vague — the  appre- 
hension of  some  trouble  to  come,  without  other 
knowledge  than  that  they  were  living  beyond  their 
means. 


LEIGH  HUNT.  14 

The  evening  was  a  memorable  one.  It  was  the 
occasion  of  my  first  introduction  to  Robert  Browning, 
then  a  young  man  ;  but  Leigh  Hunt  was  the  im- 
portant guest,  whom  every  one  else  was  invited 
to  meet. 

I  cannot  say  I  had  any  particular  admiration  for 
Leigh  Hunt,  still  I  was  curious  to  see  a  man  who, 
for  at  least  a  generation,  had  been  prominently  before 
the  world.  I  dare  say  I  was  conscious  of  a  little 
prejudice  against  him,  on  account  of  his  ingratitude 
to  Byron  ;  but,  if  so,  I  hope  I  kept  it  in  abeyance. 

It  was  not  a  dinner  party  for  which  we  assembled, 
but  one  of  those  sociable  gatherings  very  common 
among  people  of  letters  in  the  early  "  forties."  We 
had  tea  in  the  drawing-room,  with  bread  and  butter 
and  cake,  between  six  and  seven  o'clock,  but  without 
any  attempt  to  render  the  meal  what  is  called  a 
"  high  tea."  In  fact,  so  far  as  I  remember,  that  most 
uncomfortable  meal  was  not  then  introduced.  About 
ten  o'clock  we  sat  down  to  a  substantial  supper, 
which  I  believe  was  thoroughly  enjoyed,  for  surely 
conversation,  or  even  attentive  listening,  whets  the 
appetite  as  much  as  bodily  exercise. 

Certainly  there  was  plenty  of  listening  that  evening, 
for  Leigh  Hunt  played  the  Sir  Oracle,  and  harangued 
rather  than  conversed.  I  suppose  he  was  consider- 
ably the  eldest  of  the  little  party,  mustering  not 
more  than  ten  or  a  dozen  ;  and  he  dwells  in  my 
memory  as  a  thick-set  man  of  nearly  sixty,  with  fine 


150  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

dark  eyes  and  whitened  hair,  with  his  portly  person 
encased  in  a  white  waistcoat,  which  was  amply 
displayed  by  his  habit  of  throwing  back  the  lappets 
of  his  coat  and  inserting  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes 
of  the  waistcoat.  In  this  attitude,  and  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  he  discoursed  to  what  for  the  most  part 
seemed  an  admiring  audience.  I  must  confess  that 
he  seemed  to  me  the  very  type  of  self-satisfied, 
arrogant  vulgarity ;  a  man  without  reverence,  and, 
consequently,  without  the  breadth  of  understanding 
which  reverence  gives.  Perhaps  my  judgment  was 
at  fault,  and  that  I  did  not  appreciate  his  discourse 
because  it  was  "  over  my  head."  If  so,  I  beg  forgive- 
ness of  his  manes ;  yet,  in  later  years,  my  opinion  of 
his  intellectual  rank  was  confirmed,  especially  when 
I  read  that  he  preferred  the  Queen  Anne  writers 
to  the  Elizabethan  giants.  Such  a  taste  seemed  to 
me  to  harmonize  with  the  fluent  pen  and  fluent 
tongue  which  skimmed  rapidly  the  surface  of  subjects 
without  ever  diving  to  their  depths. 

Robert  Browning,  whom  years  afterwards  I  had 
the  privilege  to  know  well,  spoke  comparatively  little 
that  evening ;  but  I  was  struck  with  the  quiet  dignity 
of  his  deportment,  and  his  expression  of  commanding 
intelligence.  I  had  not  then  read  a  line  of  his  writings, 
and  indeed  he  was  new  to  fame.  I  think  his  "Bells 
and  Pomegranates"  were  on  the  eve  of  publication, 
or  lately  presented  to  the  world.  I  know  he  sent 
me  two  or  three  numbers  soon  afterwards,  though  we 


ROBERT  BROWNING.  151 

did  not  meet  again  for  some  time.  In  after  years 
I  believe  I  never  alluded  to  that  evening,  not  know- 
ing how  intimate  he  might  have  been  with  Mr. 
Z.,  and  fearing  the  subject  might  possibly  be 
painful. 

In  due  time  the  crash  came,  but  not  very  noisily. 
It  was  understood  that  Mr.  Z.,  an  employee  in  a  great 
house  of  business,  had  "done  something"  to  raise 
money,  which  would  have  brought  him  under  the 
lash  of  the  law,  had  the  lash  been  raised.  Possibly 
it  was  out  of  compassion  for  his  gentle  wife  that  he 
was  not  prosecuted.  The  Arch  Enemy,  having  a 
latch-key  to  every  house,  had  used  it  to  tempt  a  man, 
not  without  some  great  qualities,  which  backed  by 
conscience  might  have  done  him  true  service.  The 
temptation  must  have  been  literary  ambition,  the 
love  of  congenial  or  superior  companionship,  and 
the  applause  of  the  circle  in  which  he  moved.  His 
acquaintances  were  startled  and  grieved,  but  did  not 
seem  to  know  what  had  become  of  him. 

I  am  tempted  to  insert  here  one  of  the  first  letters 
which  I  received  from  Robert  Browning,  written  not 
long  after  my  introduction  to  him  at  Mr.  Z.'s.  It 
shows  how  grateful  the  poet  was  for  recognition  in 
the  "forties,"  before  he  was  really  famous.  My 
reference  to  him  occurred  in  an  article  of  mine  on 
"  Poets  and  Poetry,"  in  which  the  author  of  "  Festus  " 
was  also  mentioned. 


152  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

"  New  Cross,  Hatcham,  Surrey, 

"January  5th,  1846. 

"MY  DEAR   MISS  TOULMIN, 

"  Thank  you  very  heartily  for  your  praise — 
of  which  I  am  proud — and  for  your  kind  conveyance 
of  it — for  which  I  am  grateful.  How  the  class  of 
readers  who  look  naturally  for  '  lady-like  literature," 
as  you  say,  and  in  place  of  it  find  your  good,  energetic 
writing — how  they  relish  the  substitution,  I  cannot 
undertake  to  say — but  I  hope  with  greater  equanimity 
than  people  like  myself,  who,  having  every  now 
and  then  to  dip  into  reviews — quarterly,  monthly, 
weekly,  and  daily — never  fail  to  detect  abundant 
traces  of  the  "'prentice-hand"  just  discarded,  I 
make  no  doubt,  from  the  cutting-out  department  of 
Wellington  House  for  bad  taste  and  worse  English — 
but  the  difference  is,  happily,  that  whereas  you  would 
infallibly  warn  off  the  coarse  red  paws  of  such  fellows 
from  touching,  even — much  less  writing  criticism 
about  so  delicate  a  matter  as  a  "waist,"  long  or 
short — they,  in  securing  such  a  writer  as  you,  would 
do  far  too  much  honour  to  their  vaunted  columns.* 
Pray  believe  that  I  am  very  much  gratified,  and  ever, 
"Yours  faithfully, 

"ROBERT  BROWNING." 

*  The  latter  part  of  this  letter  refers  to  the  ladies'  magazine,  which 
I  then  conducted,  and  in  which  my  article  on  "Poets  and  Poetry" 
appeared.  It  was  a  periodical  that  devoted  some  columns  to  the 
subject  of  dress,  but  which  nevertheless  had  several  masculine  and 
other  able  contributors. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD.  153 

It  must  have  been  early  in  1844  that  I  made 
the  personal  acquaintance  of  Douglas  Jerrold. 
A  story  or  two  which  I  had  offered  for  his 
Illuminated  Magazine  had  been  accepted,  when  one 
day,  quite  unexpectedly,  two  gentlemen  visitors 
were  announced — Mr.  Jerrold  and  Mr.  Mayhew. 
By  the  end  of  their  half-hour's  stay,  a  really  old 
acquaintanceship  seemed  to  have  been  established 
with  my  mother  and  me.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  literary  people,  of  whatever  grade,  who  know 
each  other  through  the  pen,  never  do  meet  as 
strangers,  and  I  think  it  was  at  that  first  interview 
that  Jerrold,  in  speaking  to  me  said,  "  My  dear  child," 
not  that  there  was  any  rude  familiarity  in  his  manner, 
but  only  the  overflowing  kindliness  of  the  veteran 
author  to  a  new  aspirant. 

I  never  knew  any  one  who  had  more  completely 
two  sides  to  his  nature  than  Douglas  Jerrold. 
The  outside  world  considered  him  mainly  as  a 
caustic  wit,  a  dramatist,  the  chief  contributor  to 
Punchy  a  man  as  familiar  with  theatrical  green-rooms 
and  newspaper  offices  as  with  his  own  house,  and 
with  a  great  deal  of  what  is  called  "  Bohemian "  in 
his  nature ;  but  also  he  had  the  tenderest  heart  in 
the  world,  compassionating  every  sort  of  suffering, 
though  with  wrath  always  at  white  heat  against 
selfish  greed  and  tyranny,  that  brought  woe  upon  the 
innocent.  To  me  he  was  ever  a  kind  friend,  putting 
literary  work  of  various  sorts  in  my  way.  He  had 


154  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

considerable  faith  in  woman's  capacity  for  intellectual 
pursuits,  while  fully  recognizing  the  difficulties  under 
which  they  laboured  when  struggling  in  the  battle  of 
life.  Speaking  of  his  magazine,  he  once  said  that  he 
did  not  care  how  much  "dimity"  there  was  in  it 
provided  the  "dimity"  did  not  show.  And  to  the 
little  book  called  "  Punch's  Snapdragons,"  published 
at  the  Christmas  of  1844,  and  consisting  of  anonymous 
articles  and  stories,  there  was  at  least  one  lady 
contributor — Mrs.  White — besides  myself. 

It  was  while  the  Caudle  Lectures  were  appearing 
in  Punch,  that  one  summer  day  my  mother  and  I 
were  invited  to  a  friendly  midday  dinner  at  the 
Jerrolds,  who  were  then  residing  in  a  pleasant 
country  house  at  Putney.  Towards  the  close  of  the 
meal  a  packet  arrived — proofs,  I  fancy — at  any  rate 
Douglas  Jerrold  opened  a  letter  which  visibly  disturbed 
him.  "  Hark  at  this,"  he  said,  after  a  little  while, 
and  then  he  proceeded  to  read  a  really  pathetic, 
though  not  very  well-expressed  letter  from  an 
aggrieved  matron,  who  appealed  to  him  to  discontinue 
or  modify  the  Caudle  Lectures.  She  declared  they 
were  bringing  discord  into  families,  and  making  a 
multitude  of  women  miserable. 

I  believe  the  letter  to  which  I  allude  gave  Douglas 
Jerrold  great  pain;  and  perhaps  he  lived  to  think 
those  coarse  papers  unworthy  of  his  pen.  I  have 
been  told  that  he  esteemed  the  "Chronicles  of 
Clovernook "  the  best  of  his  productions,  except, 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD.  155 

I  suppose,  his  dramas,  and  certainly  that  work  is 
eminently  suggestive  of  deeper  thoughts  than  shine 
on  the  surface.  But  looking  at  it  fully  forty  years 
after  publication,  one  can  well  understand  that  its 
philosophy  was  too  subtle  to  suit  the  taste  of  the 
ordinary  reader  of  Punch,  especially  when  given,  as 
of  necessity  it  was,  in  detached  chapters.  None  the 
less,  however,  was  Douglas  Jerrold  disappointed  at 
its  reception,  and  I  believe  he  finished  it  abruptly  in 
consequence.  He  was  not  a  vain  man  ;  once  he  said 
he  should  like  to  spend  ten  years  in  taking  in  other 
men's  thoughts,  instead  of  giving  out  his  own. 

In  my  opinion  Douglas  Jerrold  was  at  his  best 
when  most  serious  ;  but  then  he  was  not  always  in 
the  mood  to  talk  seriously.  I  do  not  think  he  liked 
discussion,  but  rather  harmonious  associations.  He 
had  the  reputation  of  a  wit,  but  his  witticisms  bor- 
dered too  nearly  on  tiresome  punning  to  be  of  the 
first  order.  For  example,  on  inquiring  in  society, 
about  the  year  1854,  who  a  certain  gentleman  was, 
he  was  told,  "  Mr.  Mills,  from  Manchester."  "  Indeed," 
he  promptly  replied,  "why  I  thought  all  the  mills 
had  stopped  there."  Somehow  one  never  remem- 
bered one  thing  in  ten  of  this  sort  that  he  said, 
though  no  doubt  his  best  mots  got  into  print. 

Those  few  hours  spent  at  his  suburban  residence 
gave  me  a  pleasant  idea  of  his  domestic  inclinations, 
notwithstanding  his  Bohemian  habits.  I  remember 
he  once  told  me  that  his  income  sprang  at  a  bound 


156  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

from  two  hundred  a  year  to  two  thousand,  pre- 
sumably from  the  great  success  of  Punch,  of  which 
he  was  one  of  the  originators.  He  always  spoke 
warmly  of  the  liberality  of  the  proprietors,  who  in 
return  had  a  loyal  staff  about  them.  The  weekly 
"  Punch  dinners,"  at  which  things  were  arranged, 
were  strictly  festivities  "  under  the  rose ; "  but  I 
remember  hearing  of  one  rather  new  contributor  who 
was  suddenly  dismissed  because  he  had  allowed  one 
of  his  own  "  good  things  "  to  transpire  before  it  ap- 
peared in  print.  Such  a  blow  from  Mr.  Punch's 
truncheon  must  have  been  sorely  felt.  Mrs.  Jerrold  was 
a  pretty  and,  I  should  judge,  a  very  amiable  woman. 
The  children,  I  think,  were  most  affectionately 
trained,  the  father  avowing  that  there  were  only 
two  faults  for  which  he  should  corporeally  punish 
a  boy — namely,  telling  a  falsehood  and  cruelty  to 
animals. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Douglas  Jerrold  was  at  a 
conversazione  at  Mrs.  Loudon's,  a  few  months  or 
perhaps  a  year  before  his  death.  My  experience  in 
what  is  called  "  spiritualism "  had  already  rolled 
away  a  cloud  of  difficulties  from  my  mind,  and 
thrown  a  light  on  history,  sacred  and  profane,  and 
on  biography  ancient  and  modern,  all  of  which  had 
been  obscured  for  generations  by  materialistic  and 
scientific  teaching,  unbalanced  by  higher  knowledge. 
I  do  not  exactly  remember  how  the  subject  of 
spiritualism  arose  between  us,  but  it  was  a  subject 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD.  157 

very  rife  in  society  at  that  time,  though,  generally, 
belief  in  it  was  treated  as  the  craze  of  a  few  odd 
people,  and  a  fit  theme  for  ridicule.  I  was  well 
accustomed  to  be  listened  to  with  a  smile  on  the 
listener's  lip  and  the  inquiring  gaze  of  a  physician 
studying  the  physiognomy  of  his  patient.  I  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  touched  on  the  forehead  by  a 
familiar  friend,  who  with  a  shake  of  the  head  declined 
to  hear  more ;  but  Douglas  Jerrold's  behaviour  was 
wholly  different.  He  listened  with  serious  and  re- 
spectful attention,  and  when  we  parted — his  hand, 
I  think,  being  the  last  I  shook  on  leaving — the  last 
words  I  was  ever  to  hear  from  his  lips  were,  "  I  wish 
to  God  I  could  think  as  you  do ! " 

The  following  letter  from  Douglas  Jerrold  will  be 
read  with  interest,  especially  his  remarks  on  magazine 
contributions  "  got  for  nothing." 

"To  Miss  CAMILLA  TOULMIN. 

"  West  Lodge,  Putney  Common, 

"  October  loth,  1844. 

"MY  DEAR  MADAM, 

"  I  am  happy  to  learn  that  you  have  re- 
turned recruited  for  your  work,  which  I  have  no 
doubt  will  bear  evidence  of  the  fresh  air  of  Devon. 
My  engagement  with  the  magazine  ended  somewhat 
abruptly,  but  I  am  on  perfectly  good  terms  with  the 
proprietor,  who,  for  a  mere  money-grubber,  is  by  no 


158  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

means  the  worst  of  that  stolid  class.  I  feel,  however, 
sensibly  relieved  by  withdrawing  from  the  work ;  it 
kept  me  from  higher  and  better  labour,  and  I  was 
constantly  trammelled  by  indecision  and  ignorance. 
Mr.  Ingram's  partner  thinks  himself  literary,  and  will 
I  believe  edit.  If  I  can  judge  correctly  of  his  taste, 
it  will  not  long  survive  his  intelligence.  He  has  a 
notion  that  contributions  are  to  be  got  for  nothing, 
and  so  they  are,  and  when  got  are  worth  exactly 
what  is  paid  for  them. 

"  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  from  what 
has  been  done  much  good  has  resulted  to  Thorn, 
but  almost  all  assistance  has  been  from  the  south. 
Scotland  has  kept  her  purse-strings  with  a  double 
knot  in  'em,  even  though  it  seemed  that  half-farthings 
have  been  expressly  issued  to  tempt  her  liberality. 
I  will  send  you  Thorn's  book  when  I  can  pick  it  out 
of  the  little  mountain  of  volumes  amongst  which  it  is 
at  present  buried. 

"  I  shall  certainly  bestow  my  tediousness  upon  you 
the  first  time  I  come  your  way,  and  my  paternal 
duties  will,  I  presume,  make  the  day  not  distant. 
We  trust,  also,  that  yourself  and  mamma  will  see  us 
here  in  the  great  desert  of  Putney,  in  which  I  never 
breathed  more  freely  than  for  months  past  Now  I 
have  here  the  blessing  of  a  large  garden,  out  of  which 
I  hope  to  dig  a  book  or  two. 

"  In  two  or  three  months  I  hope  for  the  pleasure  of 
again  meeting  you  on  a  work  under  a  far  different 


"  THE  PUNCH  SET:1  JS9 

proprietorship  than  that  I  have  just  quitted.     With 
our  remembrances  to  Mrs.  Toulmin, 
"Believe  me, 

"Yours  truly, 

•'  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

"  P.S. — I  trust  I  need  not  say  that  at  any  time  it 
will  afford  me  much  pleasure — in  so  far  as  '  what  so 
poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  can  do ' — to  forward  your 
wishes ;  and  therefore  hope  you  will  never  hesitate 
to  tell  me  when  you  think  I  can  be  in  the  slightest 
way  useful." 

Writing  of  Douglas  Jerrold  leads  me  to  think  of 
the  literary  band,  who  for  some  years  after  the  publi- 
cation of  the  popular  "  Charivari,"  were  called  the 
"Punch  set."  Only  Douglas  Jerrold  and  Henry 
Mayhew  did  I  know  at  all  intimately ;  but  I  have  a 
few  words  to  say  about  Albert  Smith,  who  was  on 
the  staff  for  some  little  time.  Before  he  was  much 
known,  I  met  him  at  the  house  of  a  widow  lady,  with 
whose  son  he  had  been  a  fellow  medical  student  in 
Paris. 

I  afterwards  met  him  at  a  dance,  and  so  little  of  a 
literary  party  was  it,  that  probably  Albert  Smith  and 
myself  were  the  only  guests  who  had  ever  "seen 
themselves  in  print."  I  was  standing  near  the  draw- 
ing-room door,  where  I  had  just  been  speaking  to 
some  one,  while  waltzers  were  occupying  the  centre 
of  the  room.  Suddenly  I  perceived  Albert  Smith, 


160  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

to  whom  I  had  not  yet  spoken,  thread  his  way  from 
the  opposite  side  to  where  I  stood  ;  in  a  moment 
his  hand  was  on  my  waist,  and,  without  a  word 
uttered,  I  was  whirled  among  the  circling  couples. 
He  was  an  excellent  waltzer,  and  we  fell  into  step 
instantly.  I  enjoyed  the  whole  thing  immensely, 
laughing  inwardly  at  this  strange  sort  of  "  invitation 
to  the  waltz."  After  a  few  rounds  the  music  ceased, 
and  we  fell  into  seats  in  the  recess  of  a  window, 
when  Albert  Smith  broke  the  silence  by  exclaiming, 
"  Don't  you  hate  your  fellow-creatures?" 

"  Certainly  not ! "  I  replied,  with  the  emphasis 
prompted  by  my  then  state  of  mind,  instead  of  some 
jesting  retort  which  I  might  have  uttered  a  few  years 
later.  I  was  under  the  spell  of  the  age,  when  the 
majority  of  even  thoughtful  persons  believed  that  we 
had  only  to  educate  the  people  to  make  them  good, 
wise,  and  happy ;  when  Pope's  warning  about  a 
"  little  learning  "  was  altogether  eschewed,  and  when 
to  be  "the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files 
of  time  "  was  believed  the  earnest  of  never  falling 
back  from  the  onward  course. 

I  suppose  my  companion  must  have  smiled  at  my 
taking  his  remark  so  seriously,  and  that  the  conver- 
sation must  have  suddenly  changed,  for  before  the 
quadrille,  following  the  waltz,  was  well  formed,  and 
in  which  we  took  no  part,  we  were  discussing 
German  poetry,  with  which  Albert  Smith  seemed  well 
acquainted,  but  which  I  only  knew  through  transla- 


ALBERT  SMITH.  161 

tions.  He  told  me  he  had  just  been  translating 
Burger's  "  Leonore,"  and  said  he  would  send  me  his 
version  if  I  liked.  Of  course  I  was  grateful,  and  I 
told  him  I  had  lately  been  reading  a  translation  of 
that  poem,  which,  it  chanced,  he  had  not  seen,  and  it 
was  arranged  I  should  lend  him  the  volume  con- 
taining it. 

The  next  day  I  received  the  "  Leonore,"  printed 
in  German,  or  Old  English  type,  and  found  it  very 
spirited  and  melodious.  I  remember  nothing  special, 
personally,  concerning  Albert  Smith  for  some  years, 
except  the  great  pleasure  with  which  I  read  his 
powerful  novel,  "The  Marchioness  de  Brinvilliers," 
and  the  regret  I  felt  that  one  so  worthy  of  better 
things  should  sink  to  be  a  popular  "showman." 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  well  that  genius  should  con- 
descend. Good  work  is  only  done  by  those  whose 
powers  are  above  their  labours,  and  do  not  stand 
as  it  were  on  tiptoe  to  do  it.  Still  I  venture  to  think 
that  people  should  more  nearly  reach  their  "pos- 
sibilities" than  Albert  Smith  seemed  to  do. 

Living  out  of  town,  after  my  marriage,  I  lost  sight 
of  Albert  Smith  for  years.  The  last  recollection  I 
have  of  him  was  meeting  him  at  a  garden  party. 
Rarely  have  I  noticed  a  greater  change  in  an  in- 
dividual than  there  was  in  him.  By  this  time  he 
was  the  famous  exponent  of  Mont  Blanc,  who  had 
made,  or  was  making,  his  fortune  fast.  He  had 
grown  stout,  and  looked  older  than  his  age,  and  he 

M 


162  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

threw  back  his  head  with  a  gesture  of  self-satisfaction, 
which  I  had  not  observed  in  his  youth.  It  was  the 
period  when  men  wore  much  jewellery,  and  he 
carried  the  fashion  to  an  extreme.  On  his  white  (or 
light)  waistcoat  there  dangled  so  many  knick-knacks 
that  it  reminded  one  of  a  disordered  jeweller's  tray 
tilted  vertically.  We  only  exchanged  a  few  com- 
monplace words  ;  but  I  remember  he  spoke  of 
our  host's  very  charming  suburban  residence  as  a 
"  pretty  little  box."  It  was  a  "  box  "  where  many 
of  the  elite  among  artists,  and  men  and  women  of 
letters  were  often  hospitably  entertained  ;  the  phrase 
seemed  hardly  gracious  from  one  who  had  occupied 
the  very  modest  Bloomsbury  lodgings  whence  he  sent 
me  the  "  Leonore."  Yet  I  have  a  kindly  recollection 
of  Albert  Smith.  Perhaps  the  poetry  that  un- 
doubtedly was  in  his  nature  had  not  evaporated,  but 
had  sunk  deep  into  his  heart.  He  seemed  to  have 
a  supercilious  feeling  that  the  work  by  which  he  had 
decided  to  make  money  was  far  beneath  the  level 
of  his  mind. 


MRS.   SOMERV1LLE    WOOD.  163 


CHAPTER  X. 

Mrs.  Somerville  Wood — The  Marchesa  di  Broglio  Solari — 
Bayle  Bernard — Grace  Aguilar — Alexis. 

IT  must  have  been  before  the  year  1842  that  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Somerville  Wood,  receiving 
a  general  invitation  to  her  afternoon  receptions  on 
Sundays,  and  a  certain  week  day — Tuesdays,  I  think. 
To  her  evening  "at  homes"  guests  were  specially 
invited,  and  to  several  of  them  I  went.  I  never  met 
Charles  Dickens  or  any  of  his  family  at  her  parties, 
but  I  have  often  wondered  if,  by  any  chance,  she 
suggested  the  character  of  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter.  She 
had,  however,  many  amiable  traits,  that,  so  far  as  I 
remember,  are  not  portrayed  in  the  novelist's  famous 
caricature. 

I  am  afraid  she  too  often  confounded  notoriety 
with  fame ;  hence,  in  seeking  to  make  her  drawing- 
room  the  rendezvous  of  celebrities,  she  occasionally 
gathered  about  her  a  very  incongruous  set,  so  that 
her  house  was  nick-named  the  "  Menagerie."  Person- 
ages of  excellent  repute,  and  eminent  in  art,  litera- 
ture, or  science,  were  undoubtedly  her  guests,  but 


164  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

often  jostled  against  strange  companions — especially 
foreigners.  Exiles  with  mysterious  antecedents  she 
found  interesting ;  and,  being  something  of  a  latitu- 
dinarian,  and  a  great  phrenologist,  she  laid  the  faults 
of  people  very  often  on  their  unfortunate  organization. 
I  remember  one  evening  asking  a  lady,  who  was 
seated  near  me,  if  she  knew  who  a  distinguished-look- 
ing man  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  was,  and 
she  called  him  a  Greek  count,  adding,  "No  doubt 
he  has  committed  three  or  four  murders."  A  play- 
ful exaggeration,  I  suppose,  intended  to  typify  his 
character. 

Mrs.  Wood  was  the  mother  of  a  noted  beauty  in 
the  early  "thirties,"  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Leicester 
Stanhope,  who  was  subsequently  Countess  of  Har- 
rington. But  Mrs.  Stanhope  was  never  seen  at  her 
mother's  miscellaneous  parties,  and  it  was  whispered 
that  she  disapproved  of  them.  I  should  mention 
that  Mrs.  Wood  was  a  gentlewoman,  in  many  respects, 
of  the  old  school,  yet  so  receptive  of  new  ideas  that 
the  "  graft "  produced  great  individuality  of  character, 
almost  bordering,  indeed,  on  eccentricity.  Her  sister, 
Miss  Hall,  resided  with  her  in  a  commodious  house 
in  the  Marylebone  district  of  London,  they  being 
sisters  I  was  told  of  the  well-known  magistrate  Sir 
Benjamin  Hall.  Mrs.  Wood  had  been  twice  married, 
her  first  husband,  Mr.  Green,  having  been  the  father 
of  Mrs.  Stanhope.  Whether  she  was  a  second  time 
a  widow,  or  separated  from  her  husband,  seemed  not 


MRS.   SOMERVILLE    WOOD.  165 

clearly  understood  by  her  mere  acquaintances,  Mr. 
Somerville  Wood's  name  never  being  mentioned. 
Many  persons  well  worth  remembering  were  seen  at 
Mrs.  Wood's  house,  and  I  wish  especially  to  record 
my  recollections  of  a  nonagenarian  whom  I  met  there 
on  Sunday,  April  i6th,  1843.  This  was  the  Marchesa 
di  Broglio  Solari,  and  so  impressed  was  I  by  the 
incident  that  I  jotted  down  the  particulars  of  her 
conversation  within  a  few  hours  after  seeing  her. 

She  said  she  was  ninety-five  years  of  age,  and, 
indeed,  she  looked  surprisingly  old.  I  remember, 
years  afterwards,  seeing  in  some  foreign  gallery  a 
wonderfully  fine  head,  entitled  only  "  Una  Vecchia," 
which  must  have  been  painted  from  some  such 
original,  the  dents  of  time  were  so  accurately  marked. 
Yet  the  marchesa  appeared  to  have  retained  all  her 
faculties,  with  the  exception  of  her  hearing,  to  assist 
which  she  used  a  small  trumpet.  She  was  descended 
on  her  father's  side  from  Hyde,  Earl  of  Clarendon, 
and  her  mother  was  sister  to  Stanislaus,  last  king 
of  Poland,  who  died  of  apoplexy  at  St.  Petersburgh 
towards  the  close  of  the  last  century.  This  venerable 
lady  was  one  of  the  ladies-in-waiting  to  the  unfortu- 
nate Princess  Lamballe,  and  she  showed  the  scar  of 
a  sabre  wound  in  her  hand,  received  in  carrying  a 
letter  from  the  Princess  to  Marie  Antoinette.  To 
converse  with  the  marchesa  seemed  like  talking  to 
one  risen  from  the  dead.  And  no  wonder,  for  her 
garrulity  was  of  the  most  memorable  times,  and  of 


166  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

the  most  undying  names.  She  conversed,  with 
apparently  equal  fluency,  in  English,  French,  and 
Italian,  and  quoted  Latin  verse  with  much  emphasis. 
I  was  told  she  also  understood  German  ;  but  her 
voice  had  the  croak  of  extreme  old  age,  and  the 
harsh  intonation,  which  some  deaf  persons,  though 
not  all,  acquire. 

Though/////*?,  she  must  have  been  handsome — fair 
and  delicate  in  her  youth  and  prime ;  indeed,  the 
activity  of  her  mind  probably  prolonged  her  good 
looks. 

Though  evidently  very  feeble  physically,  she  talked 
with  energy,  feeling  that  the  half-dozen  guests  who 
were  present  were  deeply  interested  in  her  reminis- 
cences. She  asked  two  or  three  persons  to  come  and 
see  her  portrait,  painted  seventy  years  back.  I  was 
not  one  of  the  favoured  few,  or  I  am  sure  I  should 
have  availed  myself  of  the  invitation.  Her  husband 
was  a  Venetian  noble ;  and  she  bitterly  complained 
that  the  Austrian  Government  allowed  her  only  five 
shillings  a  day  after  having  robbed  her  of  seven 
thousand  a  year.  During  Napoleon's  Italian  cam- 
paign he  passed  twelve  days  in  her  house.  She 
declared  that  during  this  time  she  told  him  truths 
which  he  must  have  been  unaccustomed  to  hear.  In 
her  opinion  he  had  no  vice,  except  boundless  ambition 
for  territorial  dominion  !  She  did  not  seem  to  weigh 
very  nicely  all  that  this  great  exception  involved. 

She  said  Napoleon  had  no  idea  of  navigation  or 


MARCHESA  DI  BROGLIO  SOLARI.  167 

commerce.  He  talked  of  changing  his  system,  and 
striking  at  the  heart,  instead  of  lopping  off  the  limbs. 
By  this  he  meant  shutting  up  the  ports  of  England. 
"  At  his  words,"  she  said,  "  I  could  not  help  smiling  ; 
and  there  stood  my  husband  in  the  corner,  looking  at 
me  with  his  great  black  eyes,  knowing  well  enough 
that  I  was  not  to  be  browbeaten  by  Buonaparte. 
'  Please  your  majesty,'  said  I,  '  I  cannot  help  laugh- 
ing at  the  idea  of  shutting  up  the  ports  of  England, 
when  I  know  there  is  not  a  bit  of  a  French  wreck 
that  can  float  upon  the  water  but  it  falls  into  the 
lion's  jaw.'  Upon  which  he  spoke  to  my  husband, 
telling  him  I  was  a  Caterina,  and  hoped  I  should 
not  make  him  a  Peter." 

Then  she  showed  the  Order  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour  which  he  had  conferred  upon  her,  and  the 
orders  bestowed  by  almost  every  crowned  head  in 
Europe.  These  she  wore  on  her  breast ;  and,  sus- 
pended round  her  neck,  was  a  miniature  of  the  king 
of  Poland,  with  the  hair  of  Marie  Antoinette  and  the 
Princess  Lamballe  at  the  back.  "  It  was  surrounded 
with  fine  diamonds  once,"  she  said,  "  but  my  teeth 
have  destroyed  them." 

Poor  thing  !  The  one-time  companion  of  princes 
now  lived  in  rather  humble  lodgings  near  Fitzroy 
Square. 

Evidently  the  thoughts  and  opinions  of  the  Marchesa 
belonged  to  the  mental  atmosphere  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  She  insisted  that  the  age  into  which  she 


168  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

had  survived  was  a  degenerate  one  ;  and  especially 
was  she  ashamed  of  England,  though  once  proud  of 
being  an  Englishwoman.  I  am  afraid  fine  manners 
with  her  must  have  been  a  veneer,  which  age  had 
worn  away ;  for,  while  every  one  treated  her  with  a 
sort  of  affectionate  deference,  due  to  her  age  and 
condition,  the  contemptuous  manner  in  which  she 
spoke  of  the  "  present  day,"  in  a  company  of  people 
who  essentially  belonged  to  it,  was  not  exactly  a 
sign  of  good  breeding.  The  gods  of  her  idolatry 
were  Burke,  Fox,  and  Sheridan — evidently  she  shared 
Byron's  opinion  that  Nature 

"...  form'd  but  one  such  man 
And  broke  the  die  in  moulding  Sheridan." 

She  described  with  some  vividness  the  manner  in 
which  her  hand  was  wounded.  It  was  in  the  early 
days  of  the  Revolution,  when,  in  crossing  a  courtyard 
with  a  letter  to  the  queen,  she  was  set  upon  by  ruffians 
who  demanded  it  from  her,  and  she  must  have 
resisted  most  stoutly  to  be  so  injured.  High  courage 
and  strong  determination  may,  in  extreme  old  age, 
easily  harden  to  obstinacy  of  opinion  and  self-will. 
Certainly  the  venerable  lady  whom  I  have  attempted 
to  describe  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  person- 
ages now  living  in  my  memory. 

Captain  Bellew,  an  officer  who  had  seen  much 
service  in  India,  was  one  of  the  agreeable  persons 
whom  I  used  to  meet  at  Mrs.  Wood's  receptions. 


CAPTAIN  BELLEW  AND  BAYLE  BERNARD.      169 

He  wrote  a  book  called  "  Memoirs  of  a  Griffin  " — 
Griffin  being  the  nickname  of  a  new-comer — giving 
an  amusing  description  of  Anglo-Indian  society  at 
a  time  when  the  subject  had  a  freshness  which  it 
cannot  command  now.  But  I  mention  Captain  Bellew 
chiefly  because  he  declared  that,  having  been  bitten 
by  a  mad  dog,  and  suffering  from  hydrophobia,  he  was 
cured  by  remedies  applied  by  a  native  of  India — a 
native  woman  I  think  it  was.  He  suffered  from  an 
affection  of  the  throat,  which  occasionally  made  his 
speech  difficult,  and  of  which  he  spoke  as  the  one 
painful  result  of  the  terrible  attack.  I  have  heard 
one  or  two  well  authenticated  stories  of  the  Hindoo 
treatment  of  disease  hardly  less  surprising  than  this 
just  related  ;  and  it  may  be  that  there  is  still  olden 
knowledge  to  come  out  of  the  East. 

It  must  have  been  at  Mrs.  Wood's  where  I  first 
met  Bayle  Bernard,  the  dramatist,  then  a  handsome 
man  in  his  early  prime ;  though  I  believe  I  heard 
him  lecture  a  year  previously.  He  was  a  good  deal 
sought  after  in  society,  and  would  occasionally  enter- 
tain people  with  American  stories.  Born,  and 
chiefly  educated  at  Boston,  but  probably  of  English 
parentage,  he  could  assume  the  Yankee  twang, 
convulsing  people  with  laughter  at  a  time  when  the 
world  was  more  easily  amused  than  it  is  at  present. 
He  wrote  several  dramas  for  the  Irish  actor,  Tyrone 
Power,  famous  in  his  day,  and  who  was  lost  in  the  ill- 


170  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

fated  steamer,  The  President,  not  one  survivor  from  the 
wreck  being  spared  to  tell  the  tale.  In  my  humble 
opinion  Bayle  Bernard's  best  play  was  "  The  Round 
of  Wrong."  It  was  not  very  successful  on  the  stage, 
although  supported  by  the  excellent  acting  of  Webster 
and  others.  In  later  years  I  knew  Bernard  in  other 
ways  than  by  meeting  him  merely  at  parties,  and 
learned  to  respect  him,  not  only  as  a  man  of  genius, 
and  of  varied  knowledge,  but  as  one  admirable  in 
the  private  relations  of  life. 

Bernard  was  a  subtle  and  discriminating  critic, 
especially  of  that  department  of  literature  which  is 
known  as  the  Belles  Lettres,  not,  however,  a  cynical 
one  such  as  Byron  anathematizes  in  his  "  English 
Bards,"  but,  rather,  of  the  order  which  another  poet, 
Holmes,  the  American,  eulogizes,  thus  justly  applying 
the  following  words  to  his  friend  Lowell — 

"  He  is  the  critic  who  is  first  to  mark 

The  star  of  genius  when  its  glimmering  spark 

First  pricks  the  sky,  not  waiting  to  proclaim 

Its  coming  glory  till  it  bursts  in  flame. 

He  is  the  critic  whose  divining  rod 

Tells  where  the  waters  hide  beneath  the  sod  ; 

Whom  studious  search  through  varied  lore  has  taught 

The  streams,  the  rills,  the  fountain  heads  of  thought ; 

Who  if  some  careless  phrase,  some  slipshod  clause, 

Crack  Priscian's  skull,  or  break  Quintilian's  laws, 

Points  out  the  blunder  in  a  kindly  way, 

Nor  tries  his  larger  wisdom  to  display.'* 

Bernard  had  a  trick,  which  he  exercised  when  he 
knew  his  opinion  would  be  acceptable,  of  returning 
a  borrowed  book  enriched  with  marginal  annotations 


GRACE  AGUILAR.  171 

in  pencil.     As  for  his  own  books,  they  were  for  the 
most  part  thickly  scored. 

Peace  to  the  manes  of  Mrs.  Somerville  Wood,  of 
whom  after  my  marriage,  when  I  ceased  to  live  in 
London,  I  gradually  lost  sight.  With  all  her  eccen- 
tricities, she  had  a  kindly  nature  and  a  cultivated 
mind.  She  was  a  woman  of  society,  and,  as  such,  at 
home  as  a  hostess.  Unfortunately,  she  carried  her 
hatred  of  what  she  called  superstition  too  far,  so  that 
the  bolts  she  shot,  and  those  which  she  allowed  others 
to  shoot  at  it,  sometimes  hit  true  religion. 

Grace  Aguilar  is  a  name  that  deserves  to  be  more 
widely  known  than  it  appears  to  be  in  the  present 
day.  Yet  there  must  be  many  women,  now  mothers 
and  perhaps  grandmothers,  who  can  remember  the 
delightful  books  which  she  wrote,  mainly  for  the  young 
of  her  own  sex.  It  is  probable,  too,  that  the 
generality  of  cultivated  Jewish  families  treasure  her 
memory  with  pride,  and  regret  that  one  so  gifted 
should  have  died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-one. 

I  feel  constrained  to  write  at  some  length  of  Grace 
Aguilar,  because — except  her  brothers,  both  some 
years  her  juniors — there  can  be  few,  if  any,  surviving 
friends  who  knew  her  as  intimately  as  I  did.  Born 
at  Hackney,  in  June,  1816,  she  was  descended  from 
one  of  those  Spanish  Jewish  families  who  fled  from 
persecution  under  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  In 
person  she  was  not  at  all  the  typical  Jewess.  She 


172  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

had  soft  but  expressive  grey  eyes,  and  that  brown 
hair  which  only  wants  a  touch  of  gold  to  make  it 
almost  auburn.  Above  the  middle  height,  she  was 
slender  to  a  degree,  imparting  an  air  of  fragility — 
with  regular  features,  and  an  oval  face  that  easily 
lighted  up.  Her  voice  was  clear-toned,  though  gentle, 
and  her  manners  were  essentially  what  is  understood 
by  ladylike.  She  was  devoted  to  her  parents,  and 
proud  of  having  been  entirely  educated  by  them, 
save  for  an  interval  in  early  childhood,  too  brief  to  be 
worth  recording.  She  was  proud,  too,  of  being 
descended  from  philosophers,  physicians,  and  states- 
men of  Spain,  although  they  existed  under  condi- 
tions, difficult  to  realize  or  wholly  to  excuse.  In  the 
mediaeval  days,  when  the  Inquisition  was  a  fearful 
power,  and  the  Jews  were  so  barbarously  persecuted, 
many  members  of  the  Hebrew  race,  distinguished  for 
their  talents,  simulated  generation  after  generation 
a  belief  in  Christianity,  concealing  their  true  faith 
under  the  strictest  outward  observances  of  Roman 
Catholicism.  Men  of  this  class  held  high  offices  in 
the  State,  and  even  in  the  Church. 

Among  the  traditions  associated  with  these  Spanish 
Jews  was  a  very  striking  one.  An  ancestor,  I  believe, 
of  the  Aguilars,  holding  a  high  position  about  the 
Court,  was  on  his  death  bed,  and  a  cardinal  had  been 
summoned  to  administer  extreme  unction  and  afford 
the  last  consolations  of  the  Romish  Church. 

"  Cease,"  murmured  the  sufferer,  only  about  an  hour 


GRACE  AGUILAR.  173 

before  he  breathed  his  last,  "cease  your  ministra- 
tions. I  am  a  Jew  !  "  Upon  which  the  cardinal  im- 
mediately began  the  Hebrew  prayer  for  the  dying, 
for  he  also  was  of  the  Hebrew  race ! 

These  pretended  Christians  were  represented  as 
faithful  servants  to  the  sovereigns  whom  they  served, 
and  as  having  amassed  great  wealth  in  the  days 
when  Spain  was  the  richest  country  in  the  world. 
In  their  spacious  and  splendid  mansions  were  con- 
cealed chambers  in  which  their  own  form  of  worship 
and  religious  observances  were  carried  on ;  and,  I  was 
told,  it  was  their  detection  in  attendance  on  the 
performance  of  some  Jewish  rite  that  led  to  the  flight 
of  the  Aguilars  to  England.  A  Spanish  Jewess 
of  twenty-two  years  old  was  burned  to  death  in  the 
market-place  of  Madrid,  in  the  white  satin  dress 
which  she  wore  on  some  such  occasion.  It  was,  in  fact, 
a  case  of  sauve  qui peut ;  and  those  of  the  family  who 
escaped  owed  much  to  the  fidelity  of  a  Christian 
steward  who  transmitted  large  sums  of  money  to  the 
exiles.  I  believe  the  Aguilars  were  merchants  for 
several  generations,  and  more  prosperous  ones  than 
Grace's  father  appears  to  have  been.  By  all  accounts 
he  was  more  of  a  student  than  a  man  of  business.  He 
greatly  directed  the  historical  studies  of  his  daughter, 
and  would  even  read  to  her  while  she  was  engaged 
with  her  pencil.  Her  "  Days  of  Bruce  "  is  a  wonder- 
ful production  for  a  girl  of  little  more  than  twenty ; 
and  her  romance,  "  The  Martyr,"  shows  how  well 


174  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

she  was  versed  in  Spanish  history.  But  her 
literary  aspirations  were  evident  in  childhood,  for 
before  she  was  twelve  years  old  she  composed  a 
little  drama — never  published — on  the  subject  of 
Gustavus  Vasa.  She  had  a  wonderful  memory, 
always  recalling  the  salient  points  of  books,  though 
she  was  a  most  rapid  reader — a  devourer  of  books,  as 
the  phrase  is. 

Although  I  had  a  little  correspondence  with  her 
previously,  it  was  about  the  year  1842  that  I  first 
had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Grace  Aguilar  person- 
ally, and  I  well  remember  my  impressions  on  making 
her  acquaintance.  No  one  could  be  with  her  for 
half  an  hour  without  feeling  in  the  presence  of  no 
ordinary  person.  The  prevailing  tone  of  her  mind 
was  so  high  and  so  healthy  that  it  elevated  even  the 
most  ordinary  topics  of  conversation,  while  the  enthu- 
siasm of  her  character  and  manner  gave  an  additional 
interest  to  more  important  themes. 

Although  Grace  Aguilar  wrote  simple  domestic 
stories,  such  as  "  Home  Influence"  and  its  continua- 
tion, "  The  Mother's  Recompense,"  yet  she  produced 
works  of  a  far  different  class,  namely,  "  Records  of 
Israel,"  "  The  Women  of  Israel,"  and  "  The  Spirit  of 
Judaism,"  the  last  being  published  in  Philadelphia,  and 
edited  by  a  learned  Hebrew,  Isaac  Leeser.  It  bears 
the  date  5602 — equivalent  to  1842  or  1843  A.D.,  from 
one  September  to  the  other.  Of  course  the  book  is 
written  entirely  from  the  Jewish  standpoint,  but  its 


GRACE  AGUILAR.  175 

ethics  are  so  pure  that  it  is  a  wholesome  book  for 
any  reader.  It  justifies  what  was  said  of  the  author, 
by,  I  think,  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  that  "  she  was  a  Christian 
in  everything  but  name  and  creed." 

Indeed,  in  remembering  Grace  Aguilar,  I  always 
think  more  of  her  moral  elevation  than  of  her  genius  ; 
so  tender  was  her  conscience,  so  charitable  were  her 
judgments,  and  so  generous  her  sympathies.  I  call 
to  mind  two  instances  in  which  her  character  was 
illustrated.  She  told  me  that  Colburn,  the  publisher, 
had  proposed  to  her  to  write  a  history  of  the  persecu- 
tion of  the  Jews  in  England,  naming  a  very  liberal 
sum  as  requital. 

"  How  well  you  will  do  it ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  have  declined,"  she  replied.  "  We  are  so  well 
treated  in  England  now,  that  it  would  be  most 
ungrateful  to  revive  the  memory  of  those  half- 
forgotten  wrongs." 

And  every  reader  of  one  of  Chambers's  Miscellany 
of  Tracts,  entitled,  "  The  History  of  the  Jews  in 
England,"  which,  though  unacknowledged,  is  by 
Grace  Aguilar,  must  admire  the  right  spirit  which 
prevails  throughout. 

Be  it  remembered,  Grace  Aguilar  was  by  no  means 
in  easy  circumstances.  I  am  sure  that  at  the  time  she 
refused  Mr.  Colburn's  tempting  remuneration,  every 
guinea  she  earned  by  her  pen  was  of  consequence 
to  her. 

I   think  it  was  a  little  later  that  a  circumstance 


176  LANDMARKS   OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

occurred  which  slightly  increased  the  income  of  Mrs. 
Aguilar  and  her  daughter.  Upon  this  Grace  wrote 
to  the  editor  of  a  magazine,  to  which  she  contributed, 
and  which,  truth  to  tell,  did  not  pay  its  staff 
liberally,  volunteering  to  accept  half  the  sum  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  receive  for  her  articles, 
so  that  there  might  be  the  little  surplus  for  those 
who  wanted  it  more  than  she  did. 

One  of  the  short  articles  from  her  pen,  that 
excited  a  good  deal  of  attention,  was  her  "  Exposition 
of  Zanoni,"  which  she  wrote  soon  after  the  publication 
of  that  powerful  and  mystical  romance.  So  subtle 
was  her  explanatory  analysis,  that  it  led  to  acquaint- 
ance with  Lord  Lytton — then  Sir  E.  L.  Bulwer — 
who  told  her  that  to  two  women,  herself  and  Miss 
Martineau,  he  was  indebted  for  the  truest  understand- 
ing and  best  criticism  of  his  work.  He  mentioned 
her  article  in  the  introduction  to  a  new  edition  of 
the  book.  "  Zanoni,"  is  not  the  sort  of  production  that 
one  expects  to  be  grasped  and  appreciated  by  a 
young  woman  of  four  or  five  and  twenty  ;  but  Grace 
Aguilar  was  always  at  her  best  when  dwelling  on 
great  themes.  Every  year  her  mind  developed,  and 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  if  her  life  had  been 
prolonged,  she  would  have  written  more  and  more 
on  serious  subjects. 

Always  of  a  delicate  constitution,  and  of  the 
sensitive  temperament,  which  so  often  belongs  to  the 
gifted,  her  emotions  probably  helped  to  wear  her 


GRACE  AGUILAR.  177 

out.  However  this  may  have  been,  not  long  after 
her  great  sorrow,  the  death  of  her  father,  her  friends 
became  anxious,  though  not  at  first  exactly  alarmed, 
about  her.  But  the  illness  which  had  seized  her 
stealthily  crept  on,  leaving  only  her  bright  mind 
unimpaired.  When  she  was  too  feeble  to  walk  or 
stand  without  support,  I  saw  her  propped  by  pillows, 
pen  in  hand,  with  eye  as  bright  and  manner  almost 
as  cheerful  as  they  ever  had  been.  In  the  spring  of 
1847  sne  rallied  a  little,  and  her  visit  to  Frankfort, 
where  one  of  her  beloved  brothers  was  studying 
music,  was  undertaken  with  the  intention  of  trying 
the  German  baths,  which  had  been  recommended  ; 
a  confident  hope  being  entertained  that  a  cure  would 
be  effected. 

But  her  insidious  malady  had  taken  too  firm  a 
hold,  and  she  gradually  faded  away  until  released 
from  her  sufferings  in  the  autumn  of  1847.  When 
speechless,  she  made  known  her  wishes  and  feelings 
by  the  finger  alphabet  of  the  deaf  and  dumb ;  and, 
significant  of  her  faith  and  resignation,  her  last 
words  were,  "THOUGH  HE  SLAY  ME,  YET  WILL 
I  TRUST  IN  HIM."  Her  ashes  rest  at  Frankfort, 
where  she  died.  Life  must  have  had  many  promises 
of  sweetness  to  Grace  Aguilar  could  she  have  re- 
covered health  and  strength.  Her  genius  was  meet- 
ing with  recognition  ;  even  the  usually  cold  and 
cautious  A  thenaum  praised  her  ;  she  had  troops  of 
friends,  and  her  mind  was  full  of  literary  projects, 

N 


1 78  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

which  it  would  have  been  her  delight  to  carry  out. 
Her  heart  was  warmed  by  the  rising  fame  of  her 
brother,  the  pianist  and  composer,  many  of  whose 
beautiful  compositions  surely  belong  to  the  music 
of  the  future.  It  must  be  conceded  that  Grace 
Aguilar  had  great  ambition — the  desire,  like  that  of 
Byron,  "  to  live  in  her  land's  language."  Ambition 
has  been  called  the  "  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds." 
Is  not  infirmity  too  harsh  a  word  ?  What  great 
thing  could  ever  have  been  done  without  the  strong 
desire  to  succeed,  and  to  win  that  recognition  which 
deserves  to  be  called  sympathy  rather  than  praise  ? 
Yet,  if  asked  the  question,  I  am  sure  Grace  Aguilar 
would  have  said  that  it  was  a  finer  thing  to  live  a 
poem  than  to  write  one,  all  unconscious  that  her  own 
nobility  of  soul  was  a  fountain  of  poetry. 

One  of  the  half- forgotten  minor  poets  of  her  day, 
Nicholas  Michell,  wrote  some  touching  lines  on  her 
death,  lines  which  I  stumbled  upon  in  an  old  magazine 
only  the  other  day.  I  extract  a  couple  of  verses — 

"  Daughters  of  Judah  !  mourn— from  yonder  shore 

Hear  Death's  low  murmur'd  knell ; 
The  eye  is  closed,  the  heart  shall  beat  no  more 
Of  her  ye  loved  so  well. 

"  There  sets  the  brightest  star  that  Hebrew  eyes 

Hailed  in  the  heaven  of  mind  ; 

There  droops  the  fairest  flower  that  worth  could  prize, 
But  leaves  its  sweets  behind." 

I  have  spoken  of  Grace  Aguilar's  "  Exposition  of 
Zanoni,"  and  I  have  sometimes  fancied  that  Lord 


ALEXIS  THE  CLAIRVOYANT.  179 

Lytton's  mystical  romance  may  have  been  one  of  the 
forces  which  gave  an  impetus  to  thought  on  occult 
subjects  towards  the  middle  of  the  present  century. 
Of  course  there  were  always  finer  spirits,  who  com- 
bined largeness  of  views  with  reverent  faith  in  the 
mighty  mysteries  of  the  unseen  world  ;  but,  for  the 
most  part,  those  who  had  this  reverent  faith  hedged 
themselves  round  with  narrow  verbal  definitions,  to 
which  they  obstinately  clung.  People  of  this  class 
can  never  argue,  they  only  assert,  and  consequently 
have  no  influence  over  the  persons  they  most  desire 
to  convert.  It  is  distinctly  within  my  recollection 
that,  at  the  period  to  which  I  allude,  the  prevailing 
tone  of  intellectual  society  was  negation  of  the 
mystical.  Even  people  who  considered  themselves 
Christians  were  of  opinion  that  sublime  mysteries, 
such  as  Bulwer  Lytton  endeavoured  to  expound,  were 
but  the  armoury  of  poets  and  novelists. 

I  cannot  remember  the  precise  year,  but  I  think 
it  was  midway  in  the  "  forties  "  that  I  made  one  of 
a  party  assembled  to  meet  a  clairvoyant,  known  as 
Alexis.  I  was  not  acquainted  with  the  hostess  at 
whose  house  the  gathering  was  held,  but  a  dear 
friend  of  mine  knew  her  slightly,  and  was  able  to 
procure  admission  for  herself  and  me.  I  remember 
we  each  paid  three-and-sixpence  for  this  privilege  ; 
such  subscriptions  of  some  eighteen  or  twenty 
persons,  making  up  the  fee  necessary  for  the 
young  Frenchman.  The  house  at  which  the  meeting 


180  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

took  place  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Cavendish 
Square — Wimpole  Street,  I  think — and  was  the  resi- 
dence of  people  of  good  position  and  high  repute. 
I  had  heard  that  Alexis,  with  eyes  bandaged,  could 
describe  articles,  or  read  writing,  enclosed  in  thick 
opaque  coverings.  As  my  own  test,  I  wrote  out  the 
lines  from  Macbeth — 

"  Can  such  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder  !  " 

enclosing  them  in  a  strong  tortoise-shell  card- 
case.  When,  however,  I  had  been  a  little  time  in 
the  front  drawing-room,  where  the  visitors  were 
assembled,  I  thought  my  test  would  scarcely  be  a 
fair  one ;  for  I  perceived  that  Alexis — a  youth  of 
apparently  about  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  age- 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  English,  and,  conse- 
quently, in  his  normal  state,  would  have  difficulty 
in  deciphering  the  Shakesperian  quotation.  I  should 
mention  that  the  process  of  bandaging  the  young 
Frenchman's  eyes  consisted  in  placing  a  piece  of 
cotton  wool  over  each  closed  eye,  and  then  using 
three  large  white  handkerchiefs,  one  in  the  ordinary 
blind-man's-buff  fashion,  and  the  others  transversely 
across  each  eye ;  and  I  felt  persuaded  that  for  him  to 
decipher  a  single  word  within  my  thickly  lined  card- 
case  would  be  quite  as  wonderful  as  the  reading 
a  paragraph.  Accordingly,  I  retreated  to  the  little 
back  drawing-room,  which,  though  communicating 


ALEXIS  THE   CLAIRVOYANT.  181 

with  the  front  room  by  folding  doors,  was  quite 
empty,  and,  seating  myself  in  the  remotest  corner, 
removed  the  paper  I  had  written,  took  one  of  my 
visiting  cards  which  I  was  carrying  loose  about  me, 
and,  tearing  off  my  name,  wrote  on  it  with  my  pencil 
the  single  word  "  Alexis."  This  fragment  of  a  card 
I  enclosed  in  the  card-case,  and  returned  to  the  front 
room  to  take  my  turn — which  soon  arrived — of 
testing  the  clairvoyant's  power.  And  the  following 
was  my  experience. 

After  giving  Alexis  the  card-case,  I  never  allowed 
my  eyes  to  wander  from  it  for  an  instant.  He  pressed 
it  to  his  chest  and,  I  think,  to  his  bandaged  forehead, 
saying  as  he  grasped  my  hand,  "  Pensez  y'en  bien." 
This  I  did  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  Then,  speaking 
deliberately,  he  exclaimed,  "  Seule  carte  ;  "  and,  while 
it  was  passing  through  my  mind  that  the  card  was 
mutilated,  he  added,  "  Carte  dechiree,"  and  then, 
speaking  more  rapidly,  he  continued,  "  Seul  mot — six 
lettres — oh,  c'est  moi,"  pushing  the  card-case  from 
him  in  token  that  his  task  was  done. 

Shortly  afterwards  a  tall,  aristocratic-looking  man, 
apparently  a  little  past  what  is  called  middle-age, 
entered  the  room.  He  was  evidently  somewhat  lame, 
and  walked  with  the  aid  of  a  stick,  but,  withal,  had  an 
unmistakable  military  bearing.  I  did  not  catch  his 
surname,  but  he  seemed  known  to  several  persons 
present,  who  spoke  of  him  as  "  the  colonel."  Every 
one  seemed  willing  to  make  way  for  him,  and  he 


1 82  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

advanced  to  the  table  where  Alexis  was  still  sitting, 
and  placed  before  him,  what  looked  like,  and  I  doubt 
not  was,  an  old-fashioned  fan-case.  I  was  near  enough 
to  see  and  hear  all  that  went  on,  though  I  will  not 
trust  myself  to  repeat — as  I  have  done  in  my  own 
case — the  exact  French  phrases  that  were  used.  I 
was  content  with  remembering  their  meaning. 

Not  only  the  colonel's  eyes,  but  several  other  pairs 
of  eyes  were  fixed  unflinchingly  on  the  faded  fan-case, 
the  contents  of  which  Alexis  was  called  on  to  describe. 
Perhaps  the  colonel — who  came,  I  think,  as  a  sceptic — 
did  not  obey  the  edict,  "  Pensez  y'en  bien,"  quite  as 
earnestly  as  I  did  ;  however  that  might  be,  Alexis 
was  longer  before  he  spoke  than  he  had  been  in  my 
case  ;  perhaps  there  was  a  silence  of  two  minutes,  but 
not  more.  It  was  broken  by  Alexis  declaring  that 
the  fan-case  contained  "  something  white  wrapped  in 
paper  whiter  than  itself;"  something  "pique"  I  re- 
member was  a  word  used.  After  a  little  pause  he 
proceeded,  "  Something  taken  from  a  living  body — 
something  taken  from  your  body." 

"  It  is  wonderful ! "  exclaimed  the  colonel,  with  an 
additional  strong  expression  of  surprise.  Then  he 
opened  the  fan-case  to  show  what  it  contained.  This 
was  a  fragment  of  bone  about  five  inches  long,  in  shape 
singularly  like  a  miniature  bayonet,  and  wrapped 
in  what  used  to  be  called  silver  paper.  The  gallant 
colonel  had  been  severely  wounded  at  Waterloo, 
and  this  fragment  of  bone  had  been  taken  from  his 


ALEXIS  THE   CLAIRVOYANT.  183 

leg.  He  must  have  "joined  the  majority"  long 
ago  ;  but,  probably,  there  remains  some  family  tradi- 
tion of  the  circumstance  I  have  described,  and,  if 
these  pages  should  meet  the  eye  of  any  descendant 
acquainted  with  it,  it  would  be  a  service  to  the  cause 
of  truth  to  confirm  my  statement.  The  friend  who 
was  my  companion  kept  very  much  to  herself  the 
particulars  of  her  experience.  But  she  was  as  fully 
satisfied  as  myself,  and  finding  there  were  fresh 
arrivals  to  crowd  the  room,  we  departed  without 
waiting  to  be  witnesses  of  further  marvels. 


184  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIPE. 


CHAPTER   XT. 

Mrs.  London — Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke — Louis  Blanc — Sir  Isambard 
Brunei — William  and  Mary  Howitt — Anna  Mary  Howitt— Myra 
Drummond. 

MRS.  LOUDON  must  not  be  forgotten  among  the 
friends  of  some  celebrity  whom  I  remember  with 
pleasure.  Distinguished  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  she, 
in  middle  age,  acquired,  or,  at  any  rate,  improved, 
her  knowledge  of  botany  in  order  to  be  a  literary 
helpmate  to  her  more  famous  husband,  who  died 
before  I  knew  her.  The  incident,  however,  which 
was  said  to  have  led  to  their  marriage,  was  sufficiently 
amusing.  I  cannot  say  that  I  heard  the  story  from 
her  own  lips,  but  it  was  so  widely  bruited  among  her 
older  friends  that  I  have  no  doubt  of  its  truth. 

About  the  year  1830  or  1831  a  novel,  entitled  "The 
Mummy,"  was  published  anonymously,  and  attracted 
considerable  attention.  I  remember  reading  it — a 
well-thumbed  library  book — at  the  seaside  in  1834, 
and,  though  perhaps  too  young  to  enter  fully  into 
its  satire,  I  found  it  very  entertaining.  I  have  never 
seen  it  since,  but  I  know  it  represented  the  resuscita- 


MRS.  LOUDON.  185 

tion  of  a  royal  Egyptian  mummy,  who  is  brought  face 
to  face,  not  with  the  European  civilization  then  exist- 
ing, but  with  what  the  author  conjectured  would  be 
the  inventions  and  circumstances  of,  I  think,  the 
twenty-second  century.  Few  people  imagined  the 
work  to  be  written  by  a  woman,  though  it  was 
the  production  of  the  future  Mrs.  Loudon,  then 
Miss  Webb.  A  common  friend  of  hers  and  of  Mr. 
Loudon's,  hearing  him  praise  "The  Mummy," 
asked  him  if  he  would  like  to  meet  the  author. 

"  Above  all  things,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  come  and  dine  with  us  some  day  soon,  and 
I'll  try  to  manage  it.  Tell  me  what  day  would  suit 
you,  and  I'll  write  to  the  novelist  at  once." 

Thereupon  a  day  was  named  which  suited  all 
parties  ;  and  when  Mr.  Loudon  entered  his  friend's 
drawing-room,  a  spinster,  of  about  forty  years,  was 
introduced  to  him  as  the  author  of  "  The  Mummy," 
and  as  the  lady  he  was  required  to  take  down  to 
dinner.  A  sympathetic  friendship  was  soon  estab- 
lished between  the  old  bachelor  and  old  maid,  a 
friendship  which  ripened  into  an  attachment  that  led 
to  their  union.  It  lasted  a  dozen  years,  and  was 
a  happy  one,  only  marred  by  Mr.  Loudon's  ill  health  ; 
in  spite  of  this  drawback  he  led,  as  his  valuable 
works  prove,  an  energetic  and  busy  literary  life,  aided 
constantly  by  his  devoted  wife. 

Mrs.  Loudon  had  been  a  widow  for  two  or 
three  years  when  I  first  knew  her,  and  her  young 


1 86  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

daughter,  her  only  child.  The  latter  was  as  much  a 
"  spoilt  child  "  as  a  very  good  and  clever  girl  could  be. 
She  was  pretty  also,  and  so  precocious  that,  at  the 
birthday  party  to  celebrate  the  completion  of  her 
fifteenth  year,  which  took  place  in  1847,  she  appeared 
and  was  treated  as  the  grown-up  daughter  of  the 
house.  Mrs.  Loudon  moved  much  in  literary  society, 
and  gathered  many  notable  people  about  her.  Her 
receptions  in  Porchester  Terrace,  which  were  frequent 
in  "  the  season,"  and  occasional  in  the  winter,  were 
very  agreeable  meetings.  There  was  very  little  cere- 
mony and  no  rigid  exactions  of  dress.  Lady  artists 
and  literary  women,  with  but  light  purses,  might  come 
in  walking  costume  if  they  pleased,  and  trip  upstairs 
to  take  off  their  bonnets  and  make  their  hair  tidy, 
with  the  certainty  of  a  welcome,  as  warm  as  if  they 
had  stepped  out  of  a  carriage  and  displayed  an 
elaborate  toilette.  Tea  and  coffee  and  light  refresh- 
ments during  the  evening  were  at  hand,  but,  so  far  as 
I  remember,  only  on  a  few  special  occasions  was  an 
elaborate  supper  provided. 

I  have  mentioned  Mrs.  Loudon's  interesting 
daughter ;  and  the  result  of  her  precocious  mixing  so 
much  in  animated  society  was  that,  by  the  time  she 
was  seventeen,  she  was  what  is  called  blasfe.  A 
mere  evening  party,  or  carpet-dance,  such  as  ought  to 
satisfy  a  girl  of  that  age,  was  too  tame  for  her  taste  ; 
she  already  required  private  theatricals  or  a  fancy  ball. 
I  remember  seeing  "  The  Rivals  "  acted  in  the  For- 


MRS.    COWDEN  CLARKE.  187 

Chester  Terrace  drawing-room,  a  portion  of  which  had 
been  curtained  off  for  a  stage,  in  which  I  am  pretty 
sure  Agnes  Loudon  represented  Lydia  Languish  ;  but 
the  circumstance  is  chiefly  noteworthy  that  I  may  bear 
my  testimony  to  the  splendid  acting  of  Mrs.  Cowden 
Clarke  as  Mrs.  Malaprop.  This  was  a  character  in 
which  the  famous  Mrs.  Glover  was  considered  greatly 
to  excel,  and  I  recollect  her  impersonation  of  it  well. 
Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  however,  gave,  in  my  opinion,  a 
subtler  and  finer  interpretation  of  the  character.  Mrs. 
Glover  emphasized  the  absurdities  she  had  to  utter, 
and  seemed  to  share  in  the  mirth  she  provoked  ; 
Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  had  that  great  histrionic  gift, 
perfect  command  of  her  countenance,  and  seemed 
quite  unconscious  of  her  solecisms. 

Later  on  I  knew  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  and  her 
clever  husband  very  well,  though,  in  consequence  of 
their  long  residence  in  Genoa,  our  intercourse  for 
many  years  was  by  letters  only  ;  for  twice  when  she 
was  in  England  I  missed  seeing  her  by  unlucky 
chances.  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  is,  I  suppose,  best 
known  from  her  laborious  and  most  valuable  work, 
the  "  Concordance  of  Shakespeare."  But  she  worked 
in  many  other  literary  fields.  The  cleverest  member 
of  a  gifted  family,  Mary  Victoria  Novello  married 
at  nineteen  a  man  of  forty,  but  there  could  not 
easily  have  been  found  a  more  well-matched  pair. 
Both  were  devoted,  before  all  else  in  literature,  to  the 
elucidation  of  Shakespeare :  he  by  lecturing,  she  by 


188  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

the  pen  ;  and  so  far  did  their  enthusiasm  carry  them 
that  their  letter  paper  and  envelopes  bore  the  im- 
pression of  the  great  bard's  head,  instead  of  crest  or 
monogram. 

There  is  a  work  of  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke's  less 
known  than  I  think  it  deserves  to  be ;  I  mean  "  The 
Girlhood  of  Shakespeare's  Heroines,"  in  which  her 
vivid  imagination  and  subtle  knowledge  of  human 
nature — of  character  working  on  circumstances,  and 
circumstances  developing  character,  are  powerfully 
evinced.  The  work  consists  of  fifteen  stories,  which, 
if  I  remember  rightly,  were  published  monthly. 
They  are  paged  for  binding  as  three  volumes,  and 
are  really  delightful  reading  for  those  to  whom 
Portia  and  Desdemona  and  Juliet  and  Helena  and 
the  rest  of  the  group  are  verily  real  personages. 
The  manner  in  which  "The  Thane's  Daughter"  is 
represented  as  the  self-willed  cruel  child  is  masterly, 
though  more  pleasant  is  the  training  of  the  young 
"  Heiress  of  Belmont "  by  her  lawyer  uncle,  whom 
she  adores,  and  who  imbues  her  unconsciously  with 
love  of  his  own  studies — but  to  chronicle  their  indi- 
vidual merits  would  be  out  of  place  here. 

Agnes  Loudon  married  a  barrister,  but  died  young. 
When  I  call  to  mind  those  pleasant  evenings  at 
Porchester  Terrace,  Mrs.  Loudon's  drawing-room 
seems  tenanted  by  the  presences  that  "come  like 
shadows  so  depart."  Of  the  throng  of  eminent 
people  whom  I  remember — many  already  men- 


LOUIS  BLANC.  189 

tioned  in  these  pages — there  are  now  living,  as  far  as 
I  can  call  to  mind,  only  the  great  artist  Tenniel,  who 
at  a  fancy  ball  about  the  year  1849,  appeared  in  a 
most  picturesque  mediaeval  costume,  Mrs.  Cowden 
Clarke,  and  her  sister  the  Countess  Gigliucei,  better 
known  as  the  famous  Clara  Novello. 

Artists,  authors,  political  personages  are  removed 
from  the  world  to  make  way  for  a  new  race,  who 
look  upon  the  events  of  forty  or  fifty  years  ago  as 
ancient  history.  By  the  way,  among  political  per- 
sonages I  must  mention  Louis  Blanc,  whom  I  met 
one  evening  at  Mrs.  Loudon's.  When  I  entered  the 
room,  rather  more  than  half  the  expected  guests 
had  arrived,  and  I  noticed  a  figure  standing  on  the 
hearthrug  in  conversation  with  two  or  three  gentle- 
men. It  was  a  pigmy  of  a  man,  in  a  costume  so  like 
a  shabby  livery,  that  for  an  instant  I  took  him  for  a 
page,  who  had  some  servant's  duty  to  perform  in  the 
drawing-room.  Soon,  however,  I  perceived  that  he 
was  a  personage  who  excited  curiosity,  though  to  me 
he  was  singularly  repellant.  The  face  was  that  of  a 
middle-aged  man,  weather-beaten  and  hard  in  ex- 
pression, while  the  pose  of  the  figure  was  that  of 
arrogance  and  self-sufficiency.  He  might  be  intel- 
lectual and  full  of  misdirected  energy,  but  he  looked 
like  one  that  could  never  be  metamorphosed  into  a 
gentleman. 

Somewhat   antecedent   to   my   acquaintance  with 


190  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

Mrs.  Loudon  was  the  occasion  of  my  becoming 
rather  intimate  with  Sir  Isambard  and  Lady  Brunei. 
They  were  old,  and  I  was  comparatively  young,  but 
I  had  written  something  in  connection  with  the 
Thames  tunnel  which  gave  them  pleasure,  and  estab- 
lished a  bond  of  sympathy,  that  bridged  over  the 
difference  of  age.  Of  course  I  had  nothing  to  say 
from  an  engineer's  point  of  view,  but  from  early  girl- 
hood I  had  heard  the  feasibility  of  a  tunnel  beneath 
the  Thames  being  constructed  discussed  with  almost 
the  acrimony  of  a  political  question,  and  having  read 
the  exhaustive  article  on  the  subject  in  Knight's 
"  London "  I  was  warmed  to  enthusiasm  for  the 
character  of  the  man,  independent  of  his  work.  Now 
that  engineering  works,  so  much  more  wonderful, 
have  been  accomplished,  it  is  easy  to  speak  slight- 
ingly of  the  Thames  tunnel,  but  we  should  remember 
that  Brunei  was  the  pioneer  of  many  things  in 
mechanics,  and  that  his  untiring  energy  and  indomi- 
table perseverance  under  a  succession  of  difficulties 
have  rarely  been  equalled. 

It  must  have  been  about  the  year  1842  that  I 
received  a  brief  letter  from  Brunei  in  that  exquisite 
handwriting  of  his — literally  like  copper-plate — which 
has  often  been  lauded.  It  was  dated  from  the  country 
— the  seaside,  I  think — and  expressed  a  wish  to  see  me 
when  he  returned  to  London.  Alas !  the  terrible 
paralytic  stroke  intervened,  and  the  one  or  two  letters 
I  subsequently  received  were  in  the  palsied  hand  of 


IS  AM  BARD  AND  LADY  BRUNEL.  191 

suffering  old  age.  Months  elapsed  before  he  was 
well  enough  to  see  people,  but  at  last  I  was  asked  to 
call  in  Great  George  Street.  I  was  met  so  cordially 
and  made  so  welcome  that  I  paid  several  visits. 
Brunei  was  at  this  time  seventy-three  years  of  age, 
and  his  wife  not  many  years  younger.  I  believe  I 
was  a  good  listener ;  and,  assured  of  my  sympathy, 
they  poured  out  their  reminiscences  freely,  or  rather 
I  should  say  Lady  Brunei  did,  for  the  old  man  was 
not  voluble,  though  he  often,  by  nod  of  the  head,  or 
some  short  exclamation,  confirmed  his  wife's  words. 
She  was  a  little  old  lady,  with  all  her  faculties  bright 
and  apparently  unimpaired  ;  he,  with  a  ponderous 
head,  surmounting  what  might  be  called  a  thick-set 
figure,  bore  in  painful  evidence  the  signs  of  the  recent 
stroke. 

No  doubt  Isambard  Brunei  had,  throughout  his 
long  life,  given  abundant  proofs  of  his  commanding 
intellect ;  but  his  broad  sympathy,  his  constancy  of 
heart,  his  warm  affectionateness  of  nature,  combined 
with  his  stricken  condition,  were  what  to  me  consti- 
tuted the  pathos  of  his  old  age.  I  do  not  believe 
that  his  mind  was  seriously  impaired  at  the  time  to 
which  I  allude,  though  speech  seemed  sometimes 
difficult ;  and  occasionally,  when  mention  was  made 
of  incidents  in  his  early  life,  a  great  bead-like  tear 
would  roll  down  his  cheek.  The  old  couple  usually 
—I  might  say  always — sat  side  by  side ;  often  the 
old  man  would  take  his  wife's  withered  hand  in  his, 


192  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

sometimes  raising  it  to  his  lips  with  the  restrained 
fervour  of  a  respectful  lover.  One  of  his  biographers 
has  said  that  if  he  had  not  been  a  great  engineer  he 
would  probably  have  been  famous  as  a  philanthropist ; 
and  I  can  quite  understand  the  opinion,  so  ready  and 
tender  was  his  human  sympathy. 

I  suppose  most  persons  know  that  Brunei  was  a 
French  aristocrat,  "  under  suspicion "  during  the 
Reign  of  Terror,  and  he  owed  his  escape,  under 
God's  providence,  to  his  skill  in  imitating  writing  ; 
for  he  copied  the  passport  of  a  friend  so  admirably 
that  he  executed  one  for  himself — surely,  under  the 
circumstances,  an  excusable  forgery.  He  had  de- 
fended the  unhappy  king,  and  addressed  his  dog  as 
citoyen,  offences  which  nearly  brought  him  to  the 
guillotine. 

Brunei  was  at  this  time  engaged  to  Miss  Sophia 
Kingdom,  a  young  English  girl,  whose  acquaintance 
he  had  made  when  she  was  at  school  at  Rouen.  No 
doubt,  when  he  escaped  to  America,  he  believed  her 
to  be  perfectly  safe  on  account  of  her  nationality ; 
but  it  did  not  prove  so.  The  fiancee  of  an  aristocrat 
was  not  thought  a  safe  person  to  be  at  liberty,  and 
she  was  imprisoned  for  several  months,  owing  her 
release  at  last  to  the  favour  of  the  jailer's  wife.  They 
were  constant  through  all  vicissitudes,  though  they 
did  not  meet  for  years. 

These  reminiscences  seem  cold  when  committed 
to  paper,  but  to  hear  Lady  Brunei  tell  the  story  of 


THE   THAMES  TUNNEL.  193 

their  lives,  how,  after  the  long  separation,  they  were 
personally  so  changed  that  they  would  not  have 
recognized  each  other,  was  full  of  deep  pathetic 
interest.  As  a  naturalized  English  subject,  devoted 
to  his  English  wife,  it  was  not  surprising  that  his 
sympathies  should  be  largely  with  England.  He 
was  proud  of  having  been  knighted  by  the  "fair 
young  Queen  "  and  gratified,  mainly,  I  think,  because 
it  made  his  darling  "  my  lady."  But  they  loved 
to  tell  of  the  difficulties  overcome  in  the  construction 
of  the  tunnel  as  much  as  of  their  early  romance. 
I  am  not  aware  if  it  be  generally  known  that,  for 
seven  years,  from  January,  1835,  to  the  period  the 
tunnel  was  completed,  Brunei  never  slept  more  than 
two  hours  at  a  time. 

Lady  Brunei  herself  told  me  of  their  way  of  life. 
They  resided  near  the  shaft  at  Rotherhithe,  and, 
through  day  and  night,  every  two  hours  a  sample  of 
the  earth  excavated  was  submitted  to  Brunei  for  his 
examination  ;  and  in  accordance  with  its  character 
were  the  written  instructions  given  for  the  next  two 
hours  of  work.  Writing  materials  were  always  ready 
in  his  bedroom  at  night,  and  a  bell  was  so  hung  as 
to  ring  near  the  bed.  There  was  also  a  lift  by  which 
the  sample  of  soil  ascended,  and  by  which,  in  return, 
the  letter  of  instructions  was  conveyed.  This  broken 
rest  was  at  first  a  great  trial,  but,  after  a  while,  the 
habit  of  awaking  every  two  hours  was  formed,  and 
Lady  Brunei  declared  that  for  months  after  the  com- 

O 


194  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

pletion  of  the  tunnel  she  and  her  husband  found  it 
impossible  to  sleep  for  more  than  that  period  at  a 
time.  Nevertheless,  it  must  have  been  a  severe  trial 
to  a  man  already  in  the  decline  of  life.  Not  merely 
had  he  to  awake  and  then  go  to  sleep  again,  but 
to  rise  and  exercise  his  most  wide-awake  faculties, 
the  life  and  death  of  his  devoted  workmen,  and  all 
the  momentous  issues  of  failure  or  success  depending 
on  the  sagacity  of  his  instructions. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  summer  of  1845  that  a 
dear  friend  brought  Mary  Howitt  to  call  on  me. 
Of  course,  a  name  so  long  popular  had  been  as  a 
"household  word"  with  me  from  early  girlhood, 
and,  when  I  heard  it  announced,  I  was  enchanted 
at  the  prospect  of  making  Mrs.  Hewitt's  personal 
acquaintance.  My  first  impression  was  that  of  mild 
surprise  at  finding  the  lady  to  whom  I  was  introduced 
such  an  exceedingly  motherly  sort  of  personage. 
This  feeling  on  my  part  was  very  foolish,  for  I  had 
long  survived  the  time  when  I  expected  authoresses, 
even  the  most  famous,  to  be  very  different  in  their 
outward  seeming  from  other  women.  But  though, 
ultimately,  I  grew  to  know  the  Howitts  exceed- 
ingly well,  my  original  impression  of  Mrs.  Howitt 
was  never  quite  erased.  On  this  first  introduction 
I  mentally  guessed  her  to  be  the  age  of  the  year, 
but  I  believe  she  was  a  year  or  so  older.  Of 
medium  height,  and  rather  stout,  with  prominent 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  HO  WITT.  195 

features,  slightly  projecting  teeth,  and  hair  already 
grey,  she  would  have  seemed  the  very  type  of 
person  that  younger  women  would  have  looked 
up  to  for  guidance  and  advice,  had  there  not  been 
in  her  manner  a  certain  something  which  failed  to 
command.  Perhaps  it  was  the  semblance  of  extreme 
amiability,  added  to  the  stamp  of  provincialism,  which 
I  do  not  think  she  ever  quite  lost.  In  those  days 
railroads  and  cheap  postage  had  not  accomplished 
their  task  of  fusing  manners,  often  to  the  detriment 
of  the  better  mannered,  and  "  country  cousins "  still 
existed,  to  be  speedily  recognized  by  their  town-bred 
friends. 

I  soon  became  acquainted  with  William  Howitt, 
as  well  as  his  wife,  but  not  really  intimately  until 
some  years  later,  when  circumstances  threw  us 
somewhat  together.  Clever,  worthy  people  they 
certainly  were,  with  a  worldly  shrewdness,  derived 
perhaps  from  their  Quaker  training,  but  not  endowed 
with  that  spark  which  constitutes  genius,  and  dis- 
tinguishes it  from  even  the  highest  order  of  talent. 
Mr.  Howitt  was  a  very  agreeable  man  as  long  as 
you  agreed  with  his  opinions,  but  he  was  essentially 
pugnacious,  and  with  deeply  rooted  prejudices.  I 
think  his  wife  must  have  needed  all  her  amiability 
to  get  on  with  him  as  well  as  she  apparently  did. 
Their  daughter  Anna  Mary,  who  became  Mrs.  Alfred 
Watts  was,  I  believe,  generally  acknowledged  to  be 
of  a  higher  order  of  intellect  than  either  of  her 


196  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

parents.  When  I  first  knew  her  she  was  somewhere 
between  two  and  five  and  twenty,  and  was  decidedly 
an  attractive  young  woman.  Fair,  scarcely  so  tall 
as  her  mother,  but  delicately  proportioned,  with 
mobile  features,  that  responded  to  every  emotion, 
she  revealed  her  artistic  temperament  very  dis- 
tinctly, whatever  the  topic  of  conversation  might 
be.  She  resided  for  some  time  at  Munich,  for  the 
purpose  of  improving  herself  in  painting,  which  she 
studied  under  a  great  German  painter.  But  she 
always  preserved  a  manner  of  her  own,  which 
enabled  those  who  recognized  it  to  know  her  pictures 
at  a  glance. 

Anna  Mary  Howitt,  however,  could  write  as  well 
as  paint,  and  the  two  volumes  she  published  entitled, 
"  The  Art  Student  in  Munich,"  are  really  charming 
reading.  In  1850  she  witnessed  the  Ammergau 
Passion  Play,  and  in  the  work  just  named  she  de- 
scribes her  impression  of  it  It  is  a  very  able 
article,  but  perhaps  too  minute  in  its  details,  a  fact 
which  makes  the  reader's  interest  somewhat  flag. 
Honestly  speaking,  a  little  brochure,  by  Edith 
Milner,  not  a  quarter  the  length,  descriptive  of  the 
Ober  Ammergau  play,  as  represented  in  1890,  seems 
to  afford  a  more  striking  impression  of  it  than  the 
more  elaborate  exposition  of  the  elder  writer.  A 
good  deal  of  nonsense  has  been  talked  about  the 
play,  almost  always  by  people  who  have  not  seen  it, 
some  declaring  the  representation  profane,  others 


JOHN  SAUNDERS.  197 

calling  it  childish  and  quite  unworthy  of  this  matter- 
of-fact  nineteenth  century.  It  might  deserve  this 
censure  were  it  vulgarized  by  frequent  representation  ; 
but  only  once  in  ten  years  is  this  survival  of  mediaeval 
piety  and  art  exhibited  to  the  world ;  and  the  little 
book  of  which  I  am  speaking  describes  the  artistic 
methods  by  which  the  Great  Story  is  set  forth  in 
a  manner  that  touches  the  heart  as  well  as  kindles 
the  imagination. 

This,  however,  is  a  digression ;  and  my  recollec- 
tions of  the  Howitts  would  hardly  be  worth  noting 
did  I  not  desire  to  give  my  personal  testimony  with 
regard  to  a  literary  matter,  about  which  there  was  a 
"  quarrel  of  authors  "  that  made  some  sensation  about 
the  years  1846  and  1847.  Mr.  Howitt  was  reported 
to  have  been  the  mainstay,  if  not  the  originator  of  a 
publication,  called  The  People's  Journal,  and  to  have 
been,  in  some  strange  way,  wronged  by  the  editor  and, 
I  think,  proprietor,  Mr.  Saunders,  a  clever  man,  then 
little  known  in  the  literary  world,  but  who  afterwards 
made  his  mark.  That  the  Howitts  did  not  originate 
the  work  I  know,  because  Mr.  Saunders — a  perfect 
stranger — called  on  me  some  little  time  before  the 
first  number  appeared  to  enlist  me  as  a  contributor. 
It  was  to  be  a  cheap  weekly  journal,  entertaining  yet 
instructive,  expressive  of  the  "  liberal "  progressive 
ideas,  which  were  then  the  order  of  the  day.  As 
my  home  happened  to  be  almost  en  route  for  Mr. 
Saunders  in  his  daily  walks,  he  called  several  times 


198  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

to  tell  me  of  the  different  authors  he  had  engaged, 
and,  mentioning  his  desire  to  obtain  the  co-operation 
of  William  and  Mary  Howitt,  was  one  day  full  of 
glee  when  he  told  me  he  had  obtained  their  promise 
to  write  for  him.  I  am  nearly  sure  that  one  or  two, 
or  even  more  numbers  of  the  journal  had  appeared 
when  this  happened,  and  the  success  of  these  early 
numbers  filled  him  with  hope  for  the  future. 

In  due  time  articles  by  William  and  Mary  Howitt 
appeared — and  shortly  afterwards  I  heard  that  Mr. 
Howitt  had  put  money  into  the  concern,  so  be- 
coming virtually,  if  not  actually,  a  partner.  This 
position  appeared  to  give  him  some  authority, 
which  he  exercised  by  flooding  the  work  with  his 
own  and  his  wife's  contributions.  It  would  hardly 
be  a  figure  of  speech  to  say  that,  when  Mr.  Saunders 
told  me  how  the  work  was  going  down,  he  almost 
tore  his  hair  with  vexation,  attributing  it  entirely  to 
the  Howitt  mismanagement.  The  quarrel  soon 
became  a  disastrous  one  for  all  parties  concerned. 
The  Howitts  seceded,  and  set  up  a  journal  which 
they  called  Howitfs  Journal,  and  which  proved  very 
short  lived.  But  the  division  injured  the  People's 
Journal;  and  the  Howitts  being  better  known  than 
John  Saunders,  their  losses  were  more  commiserated 
than  his  ;  but  I  was  enough  behind  the  scenes  to  feel 
deeply  for  the  originator  of  a  work  which  promised  so 
fairly  until  marred  in  the  manner  described.  The 
People's  Journal  struggled  on  for  a  few  months,  some 


MYRA  DRUMMOND.  199 

of  the  contributors — my  humble  self  among  the 
number,  consenting  to  write  at  a  lower  rate  of  re- 
muneration out  of  sympathy  with  the  founder's  trials. 
I  think  Mr.  Saunders  behaved  with  more  dignity  and 
courtesy  than  did  Mr.  Howitt,  for  the  latter  made  it 
understood  that  those  who  continued  to  write  for  the 
People's  Journal,  could  not  be  accepted  as  contri- 
butors to  his  new  venture.  I  confess  I  never  re- 
gretted my  fealty  to  the  "  old  ship,"  though  it  made  a 
little  coolness  with  the  Howitts  for  a  time.  I  have 
never  seen  John  Saunders  since  those  days  of  strife 
and  struggle ;  if  alive  he  must  be  a  very  old  man, 
but  he  was  greatly  misapprehended  in  the  affair  to 
which  I  refer,  and  I  feel  it  a  duty  to  state  what  I 
know  on  the  subject. 

It  was  about  the  time  of  my  association  with  the 
People's  Journal  that  I  became  acquainted  with  Myra 
Drummond,  a  young  artist  who  certainly  deserved  a 
wider  popularity  than  she  ever  attained.  I  met  her 
at  dinner  at  the  house  of  an  old  friend — and  we,  with 
host  and  hostess,  made  up  a  party  carr§.  The  half 
hour  before  dinner  is  a  much  maligned  period  of 
time  ;  it  has  so  often  been  pronounced  dull  and  flat, 
when  people  are  supposed  incapable  of  animated 
conversation,  that  what  is  very  frequently  a  falsehood 
is  accepted  as  a  fact.  It  is  one  thing  to  have  a 
pleasant  appetite  for  the  principal  meal  of  the  day — 
another  to  come  to  it  like  a  surly,  ravening  wolf. 


200  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

Our  host  was  Octavian  Blewitt,  for  some  forty  years 
the  secretary  of  the  Royal  Literary  Fund,  and  I  have 
known  but  few  better-read  men,  or  men  more  rich  in 
anecdotal  remembrances  than  he ;  and  his  conversa- 
tion alone  would  always  prevent  a  small  party  being 
dull.  Myra  Drummond  sat  with  her  back  to  the 
window  in  the  waning  light  of  late  autumn  or  early 
spring,  I  forget  which  it  was,  and  the  indistinct  view 
I  had  of  her  face  did  not  impress  me  greatly.  In 
fact  I  at  first  thought  her  a  little  commonplace 
looking.  Moreover  she  was  rather  an  observer  than 
a  talker,  as  painters  often  are,  and  for  a  time  she 
joined  but  little  in  the  conversation.  But  at  dinner  I 
sat  opposite  to  her,  and  soon  saw  how  the  pale  and 
rather  sallow  face  lighted  up,  and  the  bright  eyes 
beamed  with  intelligence.  I  noticed,  too,  that 
though  slightly  deformed,  she  was  not  ungraceful  ; 
and  that,  though  not  a  great  talker,  all  she  said  was 
worth  hearing.  Before  the  evening  was  over  I  found 
myself  admiring  her  greatly,  and  hoping  that  we 
might  become  friends. 

Myra  Drummond  was  the  painter  of  a  beautiful 
picture  that,  through  the  engravings  of  it,  was  well 
known  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  and  must, 
indeed,  be  familiar  to  many  people  still.  I  allude  to 
the  portrait  of  Helen  Faucit — now  Lady  Martin — in 
the  character  of  "  Pauline  "  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons. 
This  great  actress  embodied  Bulwer  Lytton's  crea- 
tion in  a  manner  never  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who 


PORTRAIT  OF  HELEN  FAUC1T.  201 

witnessed  it,  as  I  did  three  times  during  the  first 
month  of  its  production — only  to  find  new  beauties 
on  repetition.  Undoubtedly  the  Lady  of  Lyons  is  a 
great  play,  without  ranking  among  the  greatest  that 
dramatists  have  produced ;  and  the  actors  in  it, 
notably  Helen  Faucit  and  Macready,  so  rose  to  the 
occasion  that  they  expanded  every  ideal,  and  must 
have  delighted  the  author  of  the  play.  Myra 
Drummond's  picture  was  not  only  a  life-like,  life- 
sized  portrait  of  the  actress,  but  it  presented 
her  absolutely  as  Pauline  Deschappelles.  The 
moment  chosen  for  delineation  is  one  of  the  most 
exciting  in  the  play — that  in  the  last  act,  where 
Pauline  is  receiving  congratulations  on  her  ap- 
proaching divorce,  and  is  told  that  she  ought  now 
to  be  excessively  happy.  In  the  depth  of  anguish 
she  only  ejaculates  the  word  "  Happy  !  "  Into  that 
one  word  the  great  actress  threw  the  expression  of 
her  misery,  whilst  her  look  responded  to  her  emotion  ; 
and  this  the  artist  studied  night  after  night  at  the 
theatre  until  she  was  able  to  produce  it  on  her 
canvas. 

The  artist  who  could  paint  that  picture  might  well 
be  credited  with  exceptional  power. 

My  acquaintance  with  Myra  Drummond  was  but 
too  brief.  We  exchanged  friendly  visits/ and  became 
somewhat  confidential,  for  there  were  many  points  of 
sympathy  between  us  ;  but  marriage  came  to  us 
both  about  a  year  after  our  meeting,  and  altered  the 


202  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

conditions  of  our  lives.  I  ceased  to  live  in  London, 
and  the  circumstances  of  her  marriage  form  a  pathetic 
story  which  I  have  to  tell. 

I  remember  calling  on  her  one  day,  after  we  had 
grown  rather  intimate,  when  she  told  me  of  a  picture 
she  was  painting — though  without  offering  to  show  it 
me — a  Roman  subject,  which  she  said  had  been 
delayed  from  the  difficulty  in  finding  a  suitable 
pair  of  legs  from  which  to  paint ;  but  she  added 
that  her  brother  had  at  last  discovered  a  life- 
guardsman,  who  exactly  answered  the  purpose  of  a 
model  for  her  Roman  soldier.  We  were  in  her 
studio  on  a  first  floor,  in  one  of  the  streets  off  the 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  then  rather  a  favourite  resort 
of  artists,  and  the  middle  window  had  the  glass 
carried  up  to  the  ceiling  in  the  manner  requisite  to 
arrange  the  light.  I  suspect — though  I  do  not 
positively  know — that  the  apartment,  with  all  the 
usual  litter  of  easels,  unframed  and  half  finished 
works,  and  odd  objects  that  have  their  uses,  was  the 
young  artist's  living-room  as  well  as  her  studio.  She 
did  not  conceal  from  me  her  poverty,  which,  indeed, 
was  "  writ  large "  everywhere,  but  I  think  she  had 
the  sort  of  pride  which  would  have  made  her  reticent 
on  the  subject  with  any  wealthy  acquaintances.  I, 
too,  for  years  had  been  compelled  to  put  Pegasus  in 
harness  to  draw  the  bread  cart,  and  could  understand 
her  struggles  and  her  trials. 

There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  noisy  rejoicing  that 


ART  PATRONAGE.  203 

the  days  of  "  patronage  "  are  over  ;  but  if  ever  there 
was  a  case  where  a  powerful  patron  was  needed,  it 
was  in  that  of  the  rather  reserved  Myra  Drummond, 
who  was  too  proud  to  be  her  own  trumpeter,  or  to 
make  advances  in  society,  she  requiring  rather  to  be 
drawn  out.  I  remember  her  repeating  to  me  an 
axiom  of  her  father's,  which  I  have  never  forgotten, 
"  Keep  true  to  your  art,  and  it  will  be  true  to  you." 
But  the  question  often  arises  whether  the  exercise  of 
a  little  worldly  wisdom  may  not  in  the  long  run  prove 
fidelity  to  art.  "  Put  money  in  thy  purse,"  even  if  it 
must  be  by  drudgery,  is  often  good  advice  to  the 
young  author  or  artist ;  for,  without  a  certain  amount 
of  ease  and  independence,  great  intellectual  work  has 
very  rarely  been  done ;  so  rarely,  indeed,  that  the 
exceptional  instances  of  it  are  only  delusive.  That 
multitude  of  entities  called  "the  public,"  which  is 
supposed  to  supersede  and  to  be  a  great  improvement 
on  the  individual  patron,  is  most  gregarious,  acting 
almost  always  on  the  "  follow  my  leader  "  principle. 
How  often  does  it  happen  that  if  praise  of  a  book 
is  elicited,  the  commendation — provided  the  work  is 
not  already  famous — is  qualified  by  the  observation, 
"  But  then,  you  know,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  critic !  " 
Or,  if  a  picture  becomes  famous  some  time  after  its 
exhibition,  something  of  the  same  sort  is  said. 
"  Oh  yes,  I  remember  it  very  well.  I  thought  it 
beautiful ;  but  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it  because 
I  know  I  am  not  a  judge  of  pictures."  If  these  poor 


204  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

timid  souls  had  but  the  courage  to  band  together 
and  make  a  reputation,  then  indeed  might  the  public 
be  said  to  worthily  supersede  the  patron. 

It  must  have  been  a  little  later  than  the  visit  I 
have  described,  that  I  heard  more  of  the  handsome 
life-guardsman,  who,  I  fancy,  served  for  other  sub- 
jects besides  the  Roman  soldier.  In  hours  off  duty 
he  also  carried  Myra  Drummond's  paintings  to  the 
picture  dealer's  for  sale,  with  instructions,  I  am  afraid, 
to  take  almost  anything  that  was  offered  for  them. 
I  remember  she  considered  he  had  a  real  appreciation 
and  love  of  art,  and  had  been  of  the  greatest  service 
to  her.  And — the  next  thing  I  heard,  was  that  they 
were  married  !  How  the  news  reached  me  I  do  not 
precisely  remember,  probably  through  a  message,  or 
some  correspondence  between  us,  or  I  should  not 
otherwise,  after  my  own  marriage,  have  journeyed 
from  Blackheath  to  Albany  Street,  Regent's  Park, 
to  call  on  the  artist. 

This  visit  was  about  two  or  three  months  before 
the  birth  of  her  first  child.  Her  husband  was  still 
in  the  ranks ;  and  apartments  in  Albany  Street  had 
been  chosen  on  account  of  their  proximity  to  the 
barracks.  She  seemed  glad  to  see  me,  and  spoke 
very  freely  of  the  step  she  had  taken,  and,  cer- 
tainly, without  regret.  Of  course  I  made  the  best 
of  her  position,  and  I  remember  saying  something 
to  the  effect  that  many  a  gentleman,  in  a  fit  of 
temper  or  distress,  or  from  incapacity  in  other 


MR.   AND  MRS.  POINTER.  205 

way  to  enter  the  army,  had  enlisted  as  a  private 
soldier.  And  she  retorted,  "My  husband  was  not 
a  gentleman  ;  he  is  one  of  five  sons,  peasant-born." 
And  I  am  nearly  sure  she  added,  "they  are  all  in 
the  army."  The  old  pride  was  quite  as  rampant  as 
ever.  There  was  the  old  look  also  in  her  eyes,  that 
look  which  poor  L.  E.  L.  described  as  being  "  heavy 
with  the  weight  of  unshed  tears  ;  "  and  yet  this  look 
was  a  little  less  marked  than  it  had  been  in  former 
times.  She  seemed  thoroughly  aware  that  a  woman 
could  not  raise  her  husband's  social  position,  though 
a  duke  might  raise  any  virtuous  girl  to  his  own. 
This  was  the  last  time  I  saw  Myra  Drummond,  now 
Mrs.  Pointer.  I  forget  if  it  was  from  herself  I  heard 
that  one  of  the  officers  in  her  husband's  regiment 
had  known  her  father,  and  gave  her  some  portrait- 
painting  commissions. 

The  next  thing  I  heard  was  that  Mr.  Pointer  had 
left  the  army,  and,  in  conjunction  with  his  wife, 
had  taken  up  photography  and  settled  at  Brighton. 
At  Brighton,  I  believe,  the  artist  died,  to  be  followed 
to  the  grave  in  a  few  months  by  the  husband,  who, 
it  was  said,  loved  her  so  well  that  he  died  literally 
of  grief  for  her  loss. 

In  the  summer  of  1848  I  married,  and  Camilla 
Toulmin  merged  into  the  name  which  the  title-page 
of  this  book  bears.  The  future  chapters  will  recall 
the  recollections  of  Camilla  Crosland. 


206  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

American  friends  'and  acquaintances — Charlotte  Cushman — Bayard 
Taylor — Nathaniel  Hawthorne — Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe — Madame 
Le  Vert — Grace  Greenwood — Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields — 
Margaret  Fuller. 

IT  was  after  my  marriage  that  various  circumstances 
made  me  acquainted  with  several  Americans  of  note. 
I  had  met  Charlotte  Cushman  in  society  previously, 
but  learned  later  to  really  appreciate  her  worth  and 
her  talents.  I  had  but  little  personal  experience  of 
her  as  an  actress,  for  "  Viola "  was  the  only  part  in 
which  I  saw  her ;  and  it  certainly  was  one  singularly 
unsuited  to  her,  though,  of  course,  she  embodied  that 
creation  with  feeling  and  skill.  But  I  believe— 
relying  on  the  opinion  of  excellent  judges — that 
she  was  essentially  a  great  melodramatic  and  tragic 
actress.  I  confess  I  should  like  to  have  seen  her  in 
Romeo,  in  which  she  appeared,  with  her  sister  as 
"Juliet."  I  wonder,  when  she  did  this,  if  she  entertained 
something  of  the  opinion  I  once  heard  expressed  by 
another  clever  woman,  namely,  "that  a  woman  of 
genius  would  never  be  satisfied  with  a  lover  until 
another  woman  of  genius  changed  her  sex  and  fell 


CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN.  207 

in  love  with  her."  There  may  be  a  grain  of  truth  in 
these  somewhat  bitter  words — but  only  a  grain,  for, 
though  the  lofty  ideal  of  genius  may  never  in  life  be 
precisely  realized,  it  may  on  some  sides  be  surpassed, 
if  on  others  not  reached.  The  metamorphosed  woman 
would  make  but  a  sorry  lover;  for,  as  Tennyson 
finely  says,  that  in  "  true  marriage  " — 

"...  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each  " 

until  they  grow — 

"  The  two-cell'd  heart  beating  with  one  stroke 
Life." 

This  is  a  digression,  suggested  by  the  idea  of  an 
accomplished  actress  depicting  one  of  the  most 
ardent  and  love-stricken  characters  that  dramatist 
ever  created. 

But  it  is  of  Charlotte  Cushman  in  her  private  life 
that  I  would  speak  more  fully.  Most  people  were 
aware  that  in  early  life  she  was  gifted  with  a  magni- 
ficent voice,  which  had  been  cultivated  with  the 
view  of  her  appearing  on  the  lyric  stage ;  but,  in 
some  illness,  she  entirely  lost  her  power  as  a  vocalist, 
and  had  to  abandon  all  idea  of  being  an  opera  singer. 
Yet,  happily,  her  speaking  voice,  somewhat  deep-toned, 
if  I  remember  rightly,  remained  to  carry  her  through 
a  successful  career  as  an  actress.  She  was  a  delightful 
companion,  with  something  sensible  to  say  on  nearly 
every  subject  that  could  be  started.  Her  manners 


208  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

were  remarkably  easy  and  unaffected,  with  very  little 
of,  what  we  are  accustomed  to  call,  the  American 
about  her.  To  hear  her  read  fine  poetry  was  a  real 
treat,  and  a  lesson  in  elocution  to  such  as  could 
profit  by  it.  One  day,  when  she  lived  in  Bolton 
Row,  we  made  a  rather  late  afternoon  call,  and,  as 
it  chanced  that  everybody  had  taken  a  midday 
meal,  we  lingered  on  till  the  gloaming  of  a  summer 
evening.  Emma  Stebbing,  an  American  sculptress, 
whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  in  Rome,  and  who 
died  before  her  gifts  were  fully  developed,  was  a 
guest ;  and,  I  rather  fancy,  it  was  she  who  solicited 
Miss  Cushman  to  read  something  of  Wordsworth's, 
to  which,  in  conversation,  allusion  had  been  made. 
The  time  seemed  winged,  listening  to  her,  and  she 
appeared  delighted  to  give  her  friends  so  much 
pleasure.  I  remember,  too,  the  fresh  bond  of 
sympathy  I  felt  in  her  warm  appreciation  of  one  or 
two  of  Mrs.  Browning's  least-known  poems. 

But  Charlotte  Cushman  was  more  than  a  woman 
of  genius.  She  bore  her  own  trials  bravely,  was 
generous  and  magnanimous  in  a  marked  degree,  and 
also  pitifully  forgiving  to  the  ungrateful. 

Perhaps  to  the  young  of  the  present  day  the  name 
of  Charlotte  Cushman  is  scarcely  known ;  but  a 
preceding  generation  will  recall  her,  not  only  as  a 
favourite  and  an  accomplished  actress  in  a  few  special 
characters,  but  as  an  ever- welcome  addition  to  literary 
and  artistic  gatherings. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  209 

Another  of  my  pleasant  recollections  of  American 
friends  is  that  of  Bayard  Taylor.  About  the  year 
1853  we  met  him  at  the  house  of  the  late  Mr.  Francis 
Bennoch,  at  that  time  somewhat  of  a  city  magnate, 
who  had  been  the  friend  and  benefactor  of  the 
painter  Haydon,  and  who  always  chose  for  his 
guests  people  of  worth  and  talent.  He  had  travelled 
in  the  United  States,  making  many  acquaintances 
there — hence  his  house  was  often  a  rendezvous  of 
eminent  Americans  who  came  to  London. 

Bayard  Taylor  was  at  this  period  a  bird  of  passage, 
on  his  way  to  other  countries,  and  we  did  not  see 
very  much  of  him,  though  he  spent  an  evening  with 
us.  But  there  are  people  whom  you  may  like  much, 
and  know  to  a  considerable  extent  very  quickly ; 
and  Bayard  Taylor  was  I  think  one  of  these.  He 
was  quite  a  young  man — not  out  of  the  "  twenties  "  I 
am  sure — and  full  of  that  hopeful  enthusiasm  and 
energy  which  are  so  becoming  at  that  age.  He  had 
already  travelled  much,  and  was  planning  further 
daring  adventures.  There  was  such  an  undercurrent 
of  courage  and  chivalry  about  him  that  I  have  often 
thought  how  well  suited  to  him  was  his  Christian 
name.  Not,  however,  till  he  sent  me  from  America 
his  volume,  "  The  Orient,"  did  I  know  how  true  a 
poet  he  was,  and  I  suppose  no  one  foresaw  in  him 
the  skilful  diplomatist  he  was  destined  to  become. 
Though  we  had  not  heard  from  him  for  years,  his 
death  was  a  real  regret  to  us  ;  but  how  hard  it  is  to 

P 


210  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

keep  up  a  correspondence  with  many  whom  one 
greatly  regards,  only  those  who  wield  busy  pens  can 
really  know.  In  his  youth  Bayard  Taylor  was 
decidedly  handsome,  with  a  glow  in  his  com- 
plexion which  reminded  one  of  his  neighbours  the 
Red  Indians.  He  was  tall  and  slim,  with  every  limb 
expressive  of  agility.  Gifted  and  accomplished  as  he 
then  was,  he  must  have  had  an  essentially  developing 
mind.  His  fine  translation  of  Goethe's  "  Faust/'  on 
which  he  spent  several  years,  was  produced  in  his 
later  life,  and  evinces  not  only  patient  and  artistic 
industry,  but  a  maturity  of  genius  which  grasped 
that  of  the  great  German,  in  a  manner  which  per- 
haps no  other  translator  of  that  immortal  drama  has 
done. 

I  suppose  there  are  few  English  readers  of  fiction, 
having  a  taste  for  better  things  than  the  merely 
sensational  novel,  who  are  not  acquainted  with  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter,"  "The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables," 
and  other  works  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  though  I 
am  afraid  they  are  now  less  read — and,  may  I  add, 
appreciated — than  they  were  thirty  years  ago.  Per- 
haps there  is  a  reason  for  this  ;  Hawthorne's  works 
remind  us  of  the  laborious,  patient,  and  delicate  art  of 
the  fine  gem-cutter,  and  to  "  taste  "  them  thoroughly 
every  detail  has  to  be  noticed  and  dwelt  upon,  and  its 
suggestiveness  remembered.  A  writer  who  produces 
this  sort  of  work  cannot  be  extremely  voluminous, 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  211 

and,  nowadays,  for  an  author  to  retain  his  popularity 
he  must  be  constantly  producing  some  new  thing — 
constantly,  as  it  were,  keeping  himself  "  in  evidence." 
And  to  die,  what  is  called  prematurely,  is  for  such  an 
author's  grasp  on  the  public  to  be  to  some  extent 
relaxed.  But  I  desire  to  speak  of  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne as  I  remember  him  about  1854,  rather  than 
presume  to  be  his  critic. 

In  society  he  was  one  of  the  most  painfully  shy 
men  I  ever  knew.  I  never  had  the  privilege  of 
an  unbroken  t£te-d-t£te  with  him,  and  am  under  the 
impression  that  with  a  single  listener  he  must  have 
been  a  very  interesting  talker  ;  but  in  the  small  social 
circle  in  which  I  first  met  him — it  was  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Bennoch  to  whom  I  have  before  alluded — it 
really  seemed  impossible  to  draw  him  out.  We  were 
only  five  or  six  intimate  friends,  sitting  round  the  fire, 
and  with  a  host  remarkable  for  his  geniality  and  tact ; 
but  Hawthorne  fidgeted  on  the  sofa,  seemed  really  to 
have  little  to  say,  and  almost  resented  the  homage 
that  was  paid  him.  Though  I  say  this,  my  reverence 
for  him  and  admiration  of  his  genius  remain  un- 
changed, for  the  true  man  is  in  his  works — there  he 
reveals  himself  as  the  deep  thinker,  the  true  philo- 
sopher, the  charitable  sympathizer  with  his  fellow- 
creatures — in  short,  the  prose-poet. 

Hawthorne's  early  struggles  had  been  great,  and 
the  recognition  of  his  genius  was  slow ;  probably  it 
was  the  false  position  in  which  he  was  so  long  held 


212  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

down  that  made  reticence  and  a  shrinking  shyness  a 
habit.  Hardly  anything  perhaps  is  more  at  enmity 
with  ease  of  manner  than  the  consciousness  of  a  false 
position.  Still  we  got  on  sufficiently  well  for  him  to 
do  us  the  favour  of  meeting  a  few  friends  one  evening 
at  our  house.  Really,  I  scarcely  felt  that  Hawthorne 
was  a  stranger,  for  I  had  written  a  review  of  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter,"  which  I  understood  pleased  him,  and 
had  seen  a  letter  of  his  to  a  common  friend,  in 
which  he  said  some  gracious  things  about  a  little 
book  of  mine,  reprinted  by  his  American  publishers  ; 
but  neither  of  these  little  incidents  was  named 
between  us. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  was  in  the  mid-prime  of  life,  a  stalwart 
man  whose  appearance  is  well  represented  by  photo- 
graphs, and,  if  I  remember  rightly,  by  a  lifelike  bust. 
His  blue  eyes,  rather  small  for  the  size  of  his  head, 
had  a  peculiarly  soft  expression. 

The  evening  he  spent  at  our  little  cottage  was 
memorable  for  one  amusing  incident.  Having  per- 
ceived Hawthorne's  sensitive  nature,  we  carefully 
abstained  from  making  him  the  "  lion  "  of  our  little 
party,  so  that  his  name  was  not  floated  about  the 
room  ;  but  my  husband  soon  perceived  him  in  earnest 
conversation  with  his  old  friend,  Philip  James  Bailey, 
the  author  of  "Festus,"  never  doubting  that  they  were 
mutually  pleased  to  meet  each  other,  for  "  Festus," 
that  mine  of  subtle  thought,  of  bright  imaginings  and 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  213 

dazzling-  fancies,  was  even  better  known  in  America 
than  in  England.  Quite  true  it  was  that  they  en- 
joyed each  other's  society,  but  not  till  later  in  the 
evening  did  either  of  them  know  the  other's  name. 
Though  a  dozen  people  were  chattering  round  about 
them,  I  think  it  was  just  the  sort  of  tete-ci-tete  in 
which  both  men  would  shine.  Happily  our  valued 
friend,  the  author  of  "  Festus "  still  survives,  and 
therefore  cannot  be  counted  among  the  "  lights  "  that 
"  are  fled  "  of  whom  I  am  telling. 

Surely  Lowell,  in  his  clever  "  Fable  for  the  Critics," 
has  summed  up  Hawthorne's  attributes  most  ad- 
mirably when  he  says — 

"  There  is  Hawthorne  with  genius  so  shrinking  and  rare 
That  you  hardly  at  first  see  the  strength  that  is  there  ; 
**#**** 

When  Nature  was  shaping  him  clay  was  not  granted 
For  making  so  full-sized  a  man  as  she  wanted, 
So,  to  fill  out  her  model,  a  little  she  spared 
From  some  finer  grained  stuff  for  a  woman  prepared, 
And  she  could  not  have  hit  a  more  excellent  plan 
For  making  him  fully  and  perfectly  man." 

When  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  visited  London  soon 
after  the  great  success  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  I 
was  taken  to  an  afternoon  reception  given  in  her 
honour.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  forget  the  name  of 
her  host,  but  I  have  an  impression  that  he  was  a  dis- 
senting minister  of  some  celebrity.  It  was  certainly  in 
the  early  "fifties,"  I  think  in  1852  or  1853 ;  and  perhaps 


2 f4  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

few   authors   ever   received    more   genuine   homage, 
during  a  brief  stay  in  England,  than  did  the  little 
woman  on  the  sofa  to  whom  we  were  in  turn  intro- 
duced.    I  did  not  actually  hear  the  words  from  her 
lips,  but  they  were  buzzed  about  the  room  as  having 
just  been  uttered  by  her,  that  she  "felt  like  a  child 
who  had  set  fire  to  a  packet  of  gunpowder."     Not- 
withstanding the  strong  Yankee  twang  of  her  dialect, 
there  was   a   very   charming  simplicity   of    manner 
about  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe.     She  did  not  ignore  the 
fact  that  she  had  done  an  important  piece  of  work 
in  the  world,  but  showed  neither  mock  humility  nor 
self-laudation  on  the  subject.      I   suppose  she   was 
under  forty  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  which  I  am 
speaking,  but  her  skin  looked  dry  and  withered  as  if 
by  a  settled  tan.     Her  countenance  was  distinctly  in- 
telligent, yet  I  can  fancy  certain  commonplace  people 
ranking  her  as  one  of  themselves,  and  rather  wonder- 
ing how  she  could  have  written  such  a  book.    I  mean 
those  people   who   seem  to  fancy  that  authors   are 
always  attired  in  their  "  foolscap  uniform,"  much  as 
little  children  imagine  that  kings  and  queens  always 
wear  crowns.    But  more  expressive,  to  my  mind,  than 
her  countenance,  were  Mrs.  Stowe's  hands,  which,  for 
the  most  part,  lay  very  quietly  in  her  lap.     I  noticed 
there    was    no    wedding-ring.       Small,  brown,    and 
thin,  the  gnarling  of  the  joints  revealed  the  energy 
of  character  that  usually  accompanies  such   hands. 
Though   by   no   means   so   "spirit  small"   as    Mrs. 


MRS.  B EEC  HER  STOWE.  ai$ 

Browning's  hands,  they  had  something  of  the  same 
character. 

Unless  Byron  was  right  in  saying  that  Cervantes 
in  "  Don  Quixote  "  "  laughed  Spain's  chivalry  away," 
I  suppose  no  single  work  of  fiction  had  such  national 
consequences  as  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  It  focussed 
the  horrors  of  slavery  ;  it  strengthened  the  hands  of 
the  already  earnest  active  abolitionists  ;  it  roused  the 
lukewarm  to  fervour,  and,  no  doubt,  converted  many 
opponents  of  the  great  cause,  unless  they  were 
swathed  in  the  crippling,  blinding  bandages  of  per- 
sonal interest. 

As  is  well  known,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Suther- 
land were  greatly  interested  in  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe, 
"  taking  her  up,"  as  it  was  said,  warmly,  and  when, 
many  years  after  meeting  the  famous  American,  I 
was  conducted  over  Trentham,  I  noticed  that  a  bust  of 
Mrs.  Stowe  was  established  in  a  place  of  high  honour, 
namely,  at  the  end  of  the  long  corridor,  out  of  which 
opened  the  bed-chambers  of  the  family.  About 
the  same  time  I  heard  a  characteristic  story.  My 
informant  had  it  from  a  gentleman  who  was  a  fellow 
guest  at  the  table.  Mrs.  Stowe  was  being  entertained 
at  one  of  the  ducal  residences,  and  the  occasion  was 
a  large  dinner-party.  In  a  momentary  lull  of  conver- 
sation, Mrs.  Stowe,  who  had  been  gazing  somewhat 
earnestly  at  her  hostess,  exclaimed  in  a  voice  that 
every  one  could  hear — 

"  Duchess,  how  ever  do  you  fix  your  hair  ?  " 


216  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

"You  must  ask  Louise,"  replied  the  Duchess  of 
Sutherland,  with  a  smile  that  in  no  way  betrayed 
astonishment  or  rebuked  her  guest. 

In  glancing  at  the  "  eccentricity  "  of  manners  of  a 
past  generation  of  Americans,  it  is  only  fair  to  acknow- 
ledge how  vastly  they  have  improved  of  late  years. 
Keen  observers,  quick  to  learn,  and  frank  in  acknow- 
ledging their  shortcomings — when  once  they  realize 
them — they  have  profited  by  their  opportunities  of 
culture  and  travel.  Of  course  they  hug  their  pre- 
judices still ;  but  the  class  distinction  of  their  upper 
ten  thousand  becomes  more  and  more  pronounced  ; 
and  the  reign  of  our  beloved  queen  has  done  much  to 
make  not  a  few  of  them  believe  that  there  may  be 
some  advantages  in  royalty  after  all. 

I  have  just  been  telling  of  the  famous  abolitionist 
writer,  and  now  I  have  to  mention  a  slave-owning 
lady,  who  brought  letters  of  introduction  to  us  about 
the  same  time  that  I  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Beecher 
Stowe,  and  who  I  suppose  might  fairly  be  considered 
typical  of  her  class.  Madame  Walton  Le  Vert  was 
the  wife  of  a  physician,  practising  in  Mobile,  but  she 
came  to  Europe  under  the  escort  of  her  father, 
Colonel  Walton,  who  had  been  governor,  I  think,  of 
Florida,  bringing  with  her  a  young  daughter  of 
sixteen.  She  was  spoken  of  as  the  Queen  of  Mobile, 
and  was,  I  believe,  considered  the  leader  of  fashion 
and  the  first  personage  there.  Her  entertainments, 


MADAME    WALTON  LE    VERT.  217 

often  in  the  nature  of  garden  parties,  sometimes 
numbered  a  thousand  guests,  and,  by  all  accounts, 
lavish  hospitality  in  various  directions  was  the  order 
of  the  day.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  felt  her 
wealth  was  as  secure  as  if  it  were  in  the  English  Funds, 
without  any  foreshadowing  of  the  revolution  that  a 
few  years  would  bring  about.  She  was  a  woman  of 
culture,  and  an  accomplished  linguist.  She  sought 
eagerly  to  make  the  most  of  her  time  and  opportuni- 
ties, and  as  she  had  formed  a  warm  and  intimate  friend- 
ship with  the  Lady  Emmeline  Stuart  Wortley,  during 
that  lady's  stay  in  the  United  States,  had,  I  believe, 
many  introductions  that  led  her  into  the  best  London 
society.  Appreciating  all  sorts  of  talent,  and  eager 
for  all  sorts  of  information,  she  was  ready  to  dis- 
cuss any  subject,  not  shirking  even  the  "  domestic 
institution,"  as  slavery  was  called.  She  defended 
it  to  a  certain  degree,  but  assuredly  not  wildly  and 
enthusiastically.  I  remember  her  saying  that  many 
of  her  "servants"  were  descended  from  those  who 
had  been  in  the  Walton  family  two  hundred  years 
ago,  but  that  she  did  not  desire  to  possess  any  more 
of  "that  description  of  property."  She  insisted  on 
the  slaves  being  generally  attached  to  their  owners, 
and  being  happy,  and  cited  her  own  maid — Betsy, 
I  think  she  called  her — who  at  that  moment  was  left 
at  the  hotel  with  the  key  of  her  dressing-case  in 
which  were  four  hundred  pounds  in  notes  and 
gold. 


218  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

She  did  not,  however,  say,  what  I  heard  some 
years  later  from  excellent  authority,  that  Betsy  was 
Madame  Le  Vert's  half  sister,  "given  "  to  her  by  her 
father,  because  he  thought  she  would  prove  a  kinder 
mistress  than  his  wife  had  been.  Yes,  it  was  well 
for  Mrs.  Stowe  to  write  her  second  story  "Dred," 
to  show  how  the  canker  of  slavery  corrupted  the 
"  owners  "  even  more  than  their  victims. 

It  happened  that  we  had  the  opportunity  of  pro- 
curing invitations  for  Madame  Le  Vert  and  her  father 
to  a  soirte  at  the  Mansion  House,  the  object  of  the 
Lord  Mayor  being  to  gather  together  those  who 
were  distinguished  in  literature  and  art,  and  many 
personages  of  high  rank  who  liked  to  mix  in  such 
society.  Our  American  friends  accompanied  us, 
and  I  took  the  arm  of  Colonel  Walton,  as  we  moved 
about,  looking  out  for  friends  and  acquaintances. 
Rarely,  however,  have  I  felt  so  humiliated  as  I  was 
by  the  deportment  of  this  some  time  governor  of  a 
state — this  haughty,  self-sufficient  slave-owner,  who 
thought  himself  the  equal  of  any  peer  in  the  room, 
but  who  from  time  to  time  relieved  his  cough  in  that 
American  mode  which  Mrs.  Trollope  characterized 
as  disgusting.  Nearly  forty  years  have  passed  since 
then,  and  I  do  not  suppose  such  filthy  vulgarity  could 
be  perpetrated  now  ;  but  I  felt  pained  and  ashamed 
beyond  description  at  our  having  been  the  introducer 
of  one  who  seemed  to  disgrace  us,  as  well  as  himself. 
The  better  class,  in  a  country  that  is  really  civilized, 


MADAME    WALTON  LE    VERT.  219 

have  a  certain  respect  for  the  servants  who  wait  upon 
them  and  clean  after  them,  the  want  of  which  is  always 
taken  as  a  sign  of  gross  vulgarity  ;  but  slavery  was 
a  vice  that  tainted  the  whole  nature,  and  corrupted 
manners  as  well  as  morals,  which,  after  all,  interlace 
each  other  rather  closely. 

Poor  Madame  Le  Vert !  Affluent  in  circumstances, 
and  rich  in  friends  when  I  first  knew  her,  she  little 
dreamed  of  the  change  that  was  in  store  for  her.  Up 
to  the  time  of  the  American  civil  war  we  corre- 
sponded occasionally  ;  and  when  the  war  broke  out  I 
was  instructed  to  direct  to  her  under  cover  to  one 
of  the  seceding  generals.  But  the  blockade  inter- 
fered, and  my  last  letter  or  two  could  never  have 
reached  her.  Then  she  ceased  to  write,  for  the  great 
trouble  was  upon  her.  I  believe  father  and  husband 
died  within  a  few  years ;  and  she,  who  had  been 
accustomed  to  daily  luxuries,  as  if  they  were  daily 
necessaries,  she,  whom  Lady  Emmeline  Stuart 
Wortley  had  apostrophized  in  a  very  touching  poem 
as  the  "chosen  sister  of  her  soul,"  had  to  face 
the  world,  seeking  to  maintain  herself  and  her 
daughter;  for  the  emancipation  of  the  slaves  swept 
away  her  wealth.  Yet  she  was  a  brave  little  woman, 
mentally  cultivated  and  accomplished,  and  had 
travelled  much ;  so  she  set  herself  to  prepare  and 
deliver  lectures  on  places  she  had  visited  and  people 
she  had  known.  Friends  took  tickets  and  helped 
her  as  they  were  able,  but  I  heard  that  her  success 


220  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

was  not  great,  and  that  she  and  her  daughter  died 
really  in  poverty. 

Though,  in  these  pages,  I  purposely  avoid  any  but 
the  most  incidental  notice  of  living  personages,  I 
cannot  close  my  chapter  on  American  friends  and 
acquaintances  without  some  mention  of  Mrs.  Lippin- 
cott,  the  lady  who  writes  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 
Grace  Greenwood.  When  first  I  knew  her,  some  five 
and  thirty  years  ago  or  more,  she  was  enchanted 
with  the  "  old  country."  I  remember  one  4th  of  July, 
an  allusion  having  been  made  to  the  day  always  kept 
as  a  festival  in  the  United  States,  she  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  be  reminded  of  the  4th  of 
July  while  I  am  in  England."  But  I  think  that 
young  enthusiasm  for  much  that  fascinated  her  has 
faded  away,  and  that  she  is  now  American  and 
republican  to  her  fingers'  ends.  I  feel  for  her  affec- 
tion and  respect,  notwithstanding  some  differences 
of  opinion,  and  look  upon  her  as  a  woman  of  genius 
whose  varied  talents  have  been  too  much  diffused. 
She  has  written  charming  stories  and  poems,  and 
would  have  made  her  mark  as  an  actress,  I  am  sure. 
But  I  suppose  her  speciality  is  that  of  a  journalist ; 
for,  always  on  her  visits  to  Europe,  she  appeared 
engaged  in  writing  letters  for  American  newspapers. 
No  doubt  many  people  grow  used  to  the  "  outer " 
life  of  the  journalist ;  but  to  visit  places  with  the 
object  of  writing  about  them,  to  read  books  with  the 


TICK  NOR  AND  FIELDS.  221 

intention  of  criticizing  them,  and  to  mix  in  society 
with  a  view  to  describing  it  cannot  be  the  way  to 
really  enrich  the  mind  or  develop  its  best  possibili- 
ties. Good  literary  work  is  very  rarely  executed 
speedily. 

Among  the  American  acquaintances  I  made  in 
"the  fifties"  were  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields,  the 
Boston  publishers,  eminent  among  their  class  as 
honourable  men  who  paid  English  authors  for  re- 
printing their  works,  as  I  know  by  personal  ex- 
perience, at  a  period  when  there  was  no  law  to 
prevent  their  appropriation  of  such  works,  and  the 
system  of  forwarding  early  sheets  was  not  established. 
I  mention  them,  however,  chiefly  in  connection  with 
a  little  incident,  the  memory  of  which  recalls  a  far- 
off  time.  It  was  early  in  June,  in  the  year  1852, 
the  very  last  year  of  the  Great  Duke's  life,  that 
Mr.  Fields  expressed  an  ardent  desire  to  witness  the 
preparations  at  Apsley  House  for  the  Waterloo 
banquet,  which,  ever  since  the  battle  which  gave  it 
the  name,  had  taken  place  on  the  i8th  of  June.  The 
guests  were  exclusively  officers  who  had  served  in  the 
famous  contest.  Annually,  from  my  early  childhood, 
I  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  of  the  Waterloo 
banquet  as  one  of  the  events  of  the  London  season  ; 
and,  I  believe,  for  some  years  it  was  not  very  difficult, 
by  application  to  the  duke,  to  obtain  tickets  to  see  the 
preparations,  the  tables  laid  out  with  rich  memorial 


222  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

plate  and  china,  and,  I  think,  faded  banners  raised 
aloft.  By  all  accounts  it  was  a  soul-stirring  sight, 
kindling  the  patriotism  of  English  men  and  women,  and 
remaining  a  lifelong  memory.  Mr.  Fields  had  probably 
heard  of  the  banquet  from  many  mouths,  but  I  think 
I  fanned  the  flame  of  his  desire  a  little,  and  that  I 
volunteered  to  write  a  request  for  admission  to  the 
duke  himself;  at  any  rate,  I  was  deputed  to  do  so. 
Almost  by  return  of  post  came  a  reply  in  the  well- 
known  handwriting,  that  was  perfectly  legible,  though 
betraying  the  trembling  hand  of  age.  Three  sides 
of  notepaper  it  covered ;  but  it  proved  to  be  a 
lithograph,  so  good  that  for  two  days  it  was  unde- 
tected, my  name  and  the  date  alone  being  added 
by  the  pen.  It  was  a  most  courteous  refusal,  but 
showed  that  applications,  like  mine,  were  too  numerous 
to  be  treated  in  any  other  way.  Mr.  Fields  took 
possession  of  the  letter,  considering  it  "  almost "  an 
autograph ;  but  I  remember  one  phrase  in  it  was 
"respect  for  his  servants,"  being  among  the  reasons 
that  he  could  not  comply  with  my  request. 

This  is  a  trifling  incident  to  record,  but  I  think 
it  shows  the  high-bred  courtesy  of  the  great  com- 
mander, and  the  kindly  nature  of  one  who  is  reported 
never  to  have  left  a  letter  unanswered.  Amid  all 
the  gala  festivity  of  the  annually  recurring  i8th  of 
June,  ever  the  minor  chord  of  sadness  must  have 
been  struck,  as  the  circle  narrowed  and  the  vacant 
chairs  were  increased ! 


MARGARET  FULLER.  223 

Writing  somewhat  chronologically,  I  ought,  per- 
haps, sooner  to  have  mentioned  Margaret  Fuller, 
whom  I  met  at  Dr.  Westland  Marston's  some  years 
previous  to  the  time  when  I  became  acquainted  with 
other  American  celebrities.  She  was,  without  doubt, 
a  remarkable  woman,  whose  memory  is  still  fondly 
cherished  in  the  United  States,  and  whose  name,  at 
any  rate,  must  be  familiar  to  a  good  many  English 
people.  Several  memoirs  of  her  have  been  written  ; 
and  from  them  we  gather  that  she  was  a  student  of 
Latin  and  Greek  at  an  age  when  little  girls  are 
usually  devoted  to  dolls  ;  but  she  loved  learning, 
though  there  was  much  in  the  severity  of  her  early 
training  which  might  have  worn  out  her  taste  for  it. 
The  best  thing  for  a  clever  child  is  to  mix  habitually 
with  very  superior  people,  and  this  advantage 
Margaret  Fuller  does  not  appear  to  have  enjoyed. 
Had  she  been  early  brought  into  contact  with  great 
minds  she  must  have  placed  her  own  intellect  in 
comparison  with  them,  instead  of  measuring  it  by 
mediocrities,  and  consequently  arriving  at  a  point 
of  self-esteem,  which  was  sometimes  rather  harshly 
judged.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  a  paradox,  and  yet  a 
truth,  to  say  that  had  she  learned  less  she  would 
have  known  more.  It  was  evident  that,  in  early 
life  she  gave  herself  no  time  for  the  "crooning" 
which  is  so  necessary  for  deep,  clear  thought,  and 
for  the  production  of  great  original  work. 

As  Margaret  Fuller  was   born  in  1810,  she  must 


224  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

have  been  upwards  of  thirty  when  her  darling  wish 
of  visiting  Europe  was  realized.  Her  reputation 
had  long  preceded  her  as  one  of  the  most  gifted 
women  America  had  yet  produced.  She  was  known 
to  be  a  linguist,  a  journalist,  a  teacher  of  classes 
somewhat  in  the  fashion  of  a  lecturer,  amalgamating 
in  her  mind  science,  art,  and  general  literature  in 
a  surprising  manner.  Also,  she  was  said  to  have  the 
highest  estimate  of  her  own  powers,  which  she  evinced 
by  a  persistent  egotism.  People  were  curious  to  see 
her ;  though,  perhaps,  somewhat  prejudiced  against 
her,  for  excessive  self-consciousness,  even  in  the  most 
eminent,  is  apt  to  provoke  ridicule.  I  had  never 
heard  her  personal  appearance  described,  and  it  rather 
took  me  by  surprise.  When  I  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  several,  but  not  all,  of  the  expected  guests  had 
arrived.  The  party  was  not  planned  to  be  a  large 
one,  and  I  saw  at  a  glance  who  was  the  cynosure  of 
the  evening.  A  lady  of  medium  height  and  size,  and 
of  graceful  figure,  was  leaning  back  in  an  easy-chair, 
and  alternately  listening  with  interest,  or  talking 
with  animation  to  the  group  around  her,  the  American 
twang  in  her  voice  betraying  her  nationality.  Her 
light  hair  was  simply  arranged,  and  her  cheeks 
showed  the  fading,  so  often  noticed  in  her  country- 
women when  the  thirtieth  year  is  passed,  yet  without 
exactly  ageing  the  face.  The  outline  of  her  head 
was  fine,  and  her  blue  eyes  beamed  with  candour  and 
intelligence.  She  wore  a  dress  of  lilac  silk,  enriched 


MARGARET  FULLER.  225 

with  a  good  deal  of  black  lace  drapery.  In  a  few 
minutes  I  found  myself  seated  by  her  side,  and  very 
soon  any  prejudice  which  I  might  have  entertained 
against  the  "  strong-minded  "  woman  ebbed  away. 
Though  egotistic,  certainly,  she  was  wise,  genial,  and 
womanly,  and  when  I  shook  hands  with  her  at  part- 
ing it  was  with  the  hope  of  seeing  her  again.  But 
an  accident  prevented  my  acceptance  of  an  invita- 
tion which  she  sent  me,  and  her  stay  in  London  was 
nearly  over.  Little  could  any  one  have  conjectured 
the  stirring  scenes  which  she  was  to  witness  in  the 
few  remaining  years  of  her  life  ;  scenes  which  taught 
her  more  of  the  realities  of  human  life  than  all  her 
books  could  have  done,  and  brought  into  high  relief 
the  noblest  qualities  of  her  nature. 

How  she  visited  Paris,  and  some  of  the  chief  cities 
of  Italy,  lingering  especially  in  Rome,  "the  city 
of  her  soul,"  has  been  described  in  many  a  memoir. 
It  was  in  Rome,  in  the  spring  of  1847,  that  she  met 
the  young  Marchese  Ossoli,  and  it  was  in  December 
of  that  year  that,  after  much  persuasion,  she  be- 
came his  wife.  The  marriage  was  for  a  long  time 
kept  secret,  for  he  belonged  to  an  old  patrician 
family  of  ^/^-conservative  opinions,  and  had  it 
been  known  that  he  had  imbibed  liberal  ideas 
from  a  Protestant  wife,  very  painful  complica- 
tions must  have  ensued.  Besides  this,  though 
noble,  Ossoli  was  comparatively  poor,  and  Margaret 
Fuller  was  a  "brain  worker,"  mainly  supporting 


226  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

herself,  I  believe,  by  the  letters  she  sent  to  American 
journals. 

The  revolutionary  days  which  have  made  history 
were  now  approaching.  Madame  Ossoli  was  shut  up 
in  Rome  during  the  siege,  when  she  played  the  part 
of  hospital  nurse  with  unflagging  devotion.  She  was 
by  this  time  a  mother,  and  was  riven  by  anxieties 
for  the  little  Angelo.  Nevertheless,  her  pen  was  busy, 
and,  probably,  had  her  history  of  the  stirring  scenes 
she  witnessed  ever  seen  the  light,  it  would  have 
proved  a  work  of  deep  interest.  Affairs  were  now 
becoming  serious.  The  side  Ossoli  had  taken  in 
politics  precluded  all  hope  of  his  ever  recovering 
even  a  portion  of  his  patrimony  ;  and  there  was  small 
chance  of  his  wife's  book  being  published  unless  she 
returned  to  America. 

The  wedded  pair  were  too  poor  to  engage  a  pas- 
sage in  a  steamer,  so  they  procured  accommodation 
on  a  merchant  sailing  vessel,  which  left  Leghorn  in 
May,  1850,  with  the  expectation,  which  was  fulfilled, 
of  the  voyage  occupying  two  months.  When  in  sight 
of  land  a  hurricane  arose,  and  the  ship,  heavily  laden 
with  marble,  was  wrecked,  and  nearly  all  lives  were 
lost.  The  steward  charged  himself  with  the  little 
Angelo,  promising  to  save  the  child  or  lose  his  life 
in  the  attempt.  He  kept  his  word,  for  their  bodies 
were  washed  on  shore.  But  "  Give  back  the  dead, 
thou  sea ! "  is  often  a  vain  call,  even  when  it  is  but 
the  lifeless  form  for  which  we  beg;  and  the  vast 


MARCHESA   OSSOLI.  227 

Atlantic  was  the  grave  of  Margaret  and  her  husband. 
The  senseless  Italian  marble  that  had  been  intended 
for  the  sculptor's  chisel,  broke  a  hole  in  the  ship,  and 
dragged  down  the  manuscript  history  of  the  siege  of 
Rome,  to  which  I  have  already  referred. 


228  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  triad  of  single  women — Mary  Russell  Mitford,  Geraldine 
Jewsbury,  and  Frances  Brown  the  blind  poetess. 

MY  acquaintance  with  Mary  Russell  Mitford  began 
in  rather  a  singular  manner.  It  must  have  been  in 
1852  that  a  gentleman,  whom  we  often  saw,  talked 
more  than  ever  of  Miss  Mitford,  whom  he  had  long 
known,  both  personally  and  by  a  very  voluminous 
correspondence.  He  spoke  of  her  always  with  the 
affectionate  admiration  so  becoming  in  one  of  a 
younger  generation  who  revered  those  whom  he 
looked  on  as  leaders  in  the  past.  At  this  time  Miss 
Mitford  was  three  or  four  years  past  sixty,  and 
resided  in  the  cottage  at  Swallowfield,  made  famous 
by  her  occupation  of  it.  Physically,  she  was  old  and 
infirm  for  her  age,  but  her  mental  faculties  seemed 
but  little  impaired.  She  was  engaged  in  the  good 
work  of  writing  a  book  of  recollections,  with  the 
view  of  making  some  little  provision  thereby  for  her 
two  old  servants.  The  mutual — I  beg  pardon, 
common — friend  to  whom  I  have  alluded  must  have 
spoken  to  Miss  Mitford  of  me  with  some  kindliness, 


MISS  MITFORD.  229 

for  the  authoress  sent  me  gracious  messages ;  and 
by-and-by  it  was  intimated  to  me  that  she  would  be 
very  happy  to  accept  the  dedication  of  a  novelette  of 
mine  on  the  eve  of  publication.  This  intimation  led 
to  a  correspondence,  which  grew  more  and  more 
cordial ;  for  Miss  Mitford  wrote  charming  letters  in 
all  but  the  great  essential,  legibility.  Not  only  was 
her  handwriting  crabbed  and  imperfect,  but  she  was 
parsimonious  of  paper,  writing  usually  on  half  sheets, 
and  habitually  turning  the  envelopes  of  letters  which 
she  herself  received,  making  them  do  duty  a  second 
time.  I  thought  her  kindness  of  heart  must  be  ex- 
treme, for  the  dedication  which  I  drew  up  and  sent 
for  her  approval  she  declared  was  too  cold  and  formal 
to  be  of  service  to  "  Lydia  ; "  and  she  may  be  said  to 
have  prompted  the  more  familiar  one  which  appeared. 
In  my  heart  of  hearts — but  to  my  shame,  I  suppose 
— I  had  never  greatly  admired  the  village  stories 
which  had  made  Miss  Mitford's  reputation  ;  but  I 
had  a  keen  recollection  of  the  delight  with  which, 
in  my  girlhood,  I  had  witnessed  the  representation 
of  her  tragedy  of  Rienzi.  I  am  nearly  sure  it  was 
that  fine  old  actor,  Charles  Young,  who  took  the 
part  of  the  hero,  and  the  Miss  Phillips,  to  whom  I 
have  already  alluded,  who  played  the  heroine.  At 
any  rate,  it  dwelt  in  my  memory  as  a  fine  play 
magnificently  acted.  Bulwer  Lytton  referred  to  it 
in  connection  with  his  novel  on  the  same  subject  ; 
and  it  must  have  possessed  considerable  merit  to 


230  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

have  had  a  run  on  the  London  stage.  I  believe  it 
was  by  this  tragedy  that  my  reverence  for  Mary 
Russell  Mitford  was  mainly  sustained.  Certainly  I 
was  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  be  gratified  when  she 
expressed  a  wish  for  me  to  pay  her  a  few  hours'  visit 
before  the  summer  was  over. 

Accordingly,  a  day  was  fixed ;  and  one  morning, 
in  the  month  of  August,  I  think,  I  started  from 
Blackheath  early  enough  to  catch  a  train  which  left 
London  Bridge  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  my 
destination  being  a  rural  station,  the  name  of 
which  I  forget,  but  which  was  the  one  nearest 
to  Swallowfield.  I  had  been  told  that  on  arriving 
at  this  station  I  should  be  sure  to  find  some  con- 
veyance that  would  carry  me  to  my  destination  ; 
but  at  the  end  of  my  railway  journey,  I  was  rather 
dismayed  to  find  that  I  had  nine  miles  still  to 
travel.  Moreover,  no  public  conveyance  was  attain- 
able;  I  could  procure  only  a  tall  gig,  with  the 
ostler,  as  I  suppose  he  was,  of  a  country  inn  for 
driver.  I  had  long  had  a  horror  of  two-wheeled 
vehicles,  and  mounted  to  my  seat  with  fear  and 
trembling.  In  something  over  an  hour  the  distance 
was  traversed,  and  we  drew  up  at  Miss  Mitford's 
cottage  door.  It  was  by  this  time  about  one 
o'clock ;  and  I  arranged  with  the  driver  to  remain 
in  the  village,  in  readiness  to  take  me  back  about 
six  o'clock,  that  I  might  meet  the  return  train.  I 
had  a  bad  headache,  which  I  was  obliged  to  admit 


VISIT  TO  SWALLOWFIELD.  231 

to  my  hostess ;  for  I  felt  really  ill  from  fatigue  and 
excitement.  But  half  an  hour's  rest,  an  ablution, 
and  a  little  suitable  refreshment  might  have  brought 
me  round.  It  is  true  I  was  offered  some  greasy 
sandwiches  and  a  glass  of  very  indifferent  wine  ;  but 
Miss  Mitford,  only  lately  risen  and  breakfasted — 
she  was,  indeed,  coming  down  the  stairs  as  I  entered 
—was  bent  on  taking  me  a  drive  through  Strathsfield- 
saye  Park,  and  had  ordered  her  little  pony  carriage  to 
be  ready.  She  did  not  seem  at  all  to  realize  that  I  was 
dazed  and  wearied ;  so  I  was  hurried  into  the  back 
seat  of  the  four-wheeled  chaise.  Miss  Mitford,  of 
course,  sitting,  with  a  multitude  of  wraps,  beside  her 
man-servant,  the  driver. 

I  yield  to  no  one  in  reverence  for  the  great  Duke 
of  Wellington,  and  consequently  could  not  fail  to  be 
interested  in  the  stately  home  conferred  on  him  by 
a  grateful  country ;  but  physical  suffering  and  mental 
enjoyment  are  not  well  mated.  Miss  Mitford  leaned 
back  sideways  to  talk  to  me,  while  I  had  to  lean 
forward  to  listen  and  rejoin.  That  drive  seemed  even 
more  miserable  than  the  previous  nine  miles  of 
jolting.  But  it  came  to  an  end,  like  pleasanter  things, 
and  her  sympathetic  woman-servant — wife,  I  believe, 
to  the  man-servant — conducted  me  to  a  room 
where  I  had  the  refreshment  of  soap  and  water. 
Then  I  went  down  to  the  little  drawing-room,  where 
my  hostess  was  ready  for  conversation.  She  inti- 
mated to  me  that  she  "  never  dined,"  but  that  dinner 


232  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

would  be  ready  for  me  by-and-by.  Miss  Mitford's 
habits  were  very  eccentric,  and  not  conducive  to 
health  and  longevity.  She  habitually  sat  up  till 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  and  frequently  till 
four  or  five  o'clock.  Of  course  she  rose  very  late,  and 
I  understood  that  her  breakfast  between  twelve  and 
one  o'clock  was  her  principal  meal  of  the  day.  Of 
medium  height,  but  very  stout,  she  moved  with 
difficulty,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  stick ;  but  her  large 
head  and  ponderous  brow  gave  her  a  marked  indi- 
viduality. She  had  a  pleasant  voice,  the  trained 
voice  of  good  breeding  and  of  good  society,  with  a 
certain  touch  of  authoritativeness  in  it.  Those  who 
have  been  more  in  society,  than  feeble  health  has  for 
many  years  permitted  me  to  be,  admit  that  really 
fine  manners  are  a  something  that  seems  to  grow 
rarer  and  rarer.  But  I  can  remember  the  fine  manners 
of  a  past  generation  ;  and  they  were  of  two  sorts, 
each  revealing  character  very  distinctly.  There 
was  the  stately  measured  politeness,  that  was  never 
ruffled  by  enthusiasm,  never  for  a  moment  off  guard  ; 
and  there  was  the  genial,  kindly  politeness — every 
whit  as  dignified  as  the  other — but  which,  seeming  to 
be  of  the  nature  born,  has  no  need  to  be  on  guard. 

I  am  obliged  to  confess  that  Miss  Mitford's 
manners  impressed  me  with  the  idea  of  being  of  the 
first-named  sort.  In  the  hour  and  a  half  which 
preceded  my  summons  to  a  solitary  dinner,  we 
conversed  on  many  subjects  and  spoke  of  many 


MISS  MITFORD.  233 

people,  and,  it  is  a  fact,  that  of  not  one  celebrity  did 
she  speak  well,  with  the  single  exception  of  Louis 
Napoleon,  whose  recent  coup  d'etat  she  extenuated. 
Robert  Browning  was  the  especial  object  of  her 
vituperation — little  imagining  that  his  career  would 
culminate  in  a  grave  in  Westminster  Abbey.  She 
thought  he  might  as  well  have  proposed  to  a  princess 
as  to  her  friend,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  whom  she 
evidently  looked  on  as  a  naughty  child  for  accept- 
ing him.  Although  not  then  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  poet-pair,  as  I  afterwards  had  the  happiness 
to  become,  I  yet  ranked  them  already  as  my  friends, 
and  ventured,  rather  warmly,  to  defend  them.  I 
doubt  if  she  had  read  a  line  of  Robert  Browning's 
later  poems — and  I  doubt,  also,  if  she  had  ever 
pierced  to  the  depths  of  those  which  his  wife  had 
written.  She  had  a  personal  liking  for  the  poetical 
girl-friend,  who  still  looked  up  to  her  as  a  luminary ; 
but  in  the  Valhalla  of  souls  I  think  the  worship 
needed  to  be  reversed. 

Reflecting  on  what  she  has  done,  and  what  her 
opinions,  as  she  expressed  them  in  conversation, 
seemed  to  be,  my  impression  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford 
remains  as  that  of  a  "  hard-headed  "  woman,  spoiled 
by  early  and  easily  acquired  literary  success,  at  a  time 
when  women  authors  were  few ;  whose  intimate 
friends  seemed  all  in  good  positions,  and  who  was 
quite  out  of  touch  with  the  struggles  of  the  middle- 
classes.  Yet  I  am  sure  she  must  have  had  tender 


234  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

springs  in  her  nature  which  circumstances  had  never 
called  into  play. 

When  the  dreadful  gig  arrived  to  take  me  back  to 
the  station,  I  was  still  miserably  ill,  a  fact  which  my 
hostess  scarcely  recognized,  but  we  parted  cordially, 
she  giving  me  an  engraving  from  the  lifelike  portrait 
of  her  by  John  Lucas,  with  an  affectionate  inscrip- 
tion in  her  own  handwriting.  I  never  saw  Miss 
Mitford  again.  Soon  after  my  visit  her  health  failed 
more  and  more,  and  she  died,  mainly,  I  believe,  from 
decay  of  nature,  a  year  or  two  afterwards. 

At  the  time  that  Miss  Mitford  spoke  to  me  of 
the  Brownings,  they  had  been  married  some  years ; 
but  the  following  letter,  besides  being  of  domestic 
interest,  shows  that  the  friendly  relationship  between 
the  author  of  "  Our  Village  "  and  "  Rienzi "  and  the 
poetess  still  continued,  in  spite  of  the  disfavour  with 
which  the  elder  lady  had  regarded  the  marriage. 

"58,  Welbeck  Street,  Cavendish  Square, 

**  Wednesday  morning  [Sept.  I5th,  1852]. 

"Mv  DEAR  MRS.  CROSLAND, 

"  I  reproach  myself  much  in  respect  to  you. 
I  only  hope,  from  your  goodness,  that  you  are  more 
inclined  to  be  indulgent  to  me  than  I  am  to  myself. 

"  The  meaning  of  my  silence  has  not,  however, 
been  "  the  bad  thing  about  it."  I  put  off  writing  to 
you  till  I  could  have  it  in  my  power  to  fix  a  day  for 
going  to  you,  as  you  kindly  proposed,  and  the  press 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  23$ 

of  our  engagements  not  admitting  of  this,  week  after 
week  I  still  waited,  waited — and  now  my  nurse  has 
gone  to  visit  her  mother,  and  I  have  my  child  on  my 
hands,  with  all  the  nursing,  dressing,  washing,  and 
general  state  of  imprisonment  belonging  to  the 
privilege. 

"  Will  you — can  you  forgive  me  ?  Do  you  under- 
stand how  the  chains  are  heavy  upon  my  hands  and 
feet  ? 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  down  to  Miss  Mitford, 
though  she  has  wished  it  and  though  I  have  wished 
it  doubly. 

"  My  nurse  returns  at  the  end  of  next  week ;  but 
I  can't  answer  for  myself  now,  and  had  better  say  so. 
Is  there  no  hope  of  seeing  you  here  when  you  come 
to  town  ?  which  may  happen  occasionally. 

"  I  heard  from  our  friend  Mrs.  Ogilvy  *  the  other 
day,  she  seems  quite  well  and  happy,  scheming  vaguely 
about  the  Continent.  By  the  way,  a  story  of  hers 
has  been  coining  out  of  late  in  your  periodical,  which 
I  have  made  some  ineffectual  efforts  to  get  a  sight 
of.  Is  it  very  improper  of  me  if  I  ask  you  to  lend 
me  the  numbers  which  contain  it  ?  If  so,  don't  mind 
me.  But  if  you  have  those  numbers  by  you,  and 

*  A  lady  better  known  by  her  initials  E.  A.  H.  O.  than  by  her  full 
name,  and  recognized  as  a  writer  of  clever  stories  and  able  criticisms, 
as  well  as  of  spirited  poems.  Her  volume  entitled  "A  Book  of  High- 
land Minstrelsy,"  though  differing  in  subjects  treated,  deserves  to  be 
compared  for  vigour  and  national  enthusiasm  with  Professor  Aytoun's 
"Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers." 


236  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

can  send  them  by  the  Parcel  Delivery  Company 
without  inconvenience,  I  will  return  them  to  you 
carefully  and  thank  you  much  besides. 

"  Oh,  and  I  have  to  thank  you  twice  over  for 
'  Lydia,'  now  I  have  read  the  book.  May  all  our 
talents  in  England  have  such  pure  aims ! 

"  Most  truly  yours, 
"ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  two  "single  women 
of  a  certain  age"  more  different  than  were  Miss 
Mitford,  and  Geraldine  Endsor  Jewsbury,  though, 
for  the  matter  of  ages,  the  latter  was  a  comparatively 
young  woman  when  I  first  knew  her.  Small  and 
slight,  lithe  and  active,  and  with  regular  features, 
she  must  have  been,  what  I  always  heard  she  was, 
a  very  pretty  girl.  Belonging  to  a  Manchester  family, 
I  believe  she  came  to  London — though  not  then  to 
reside  in  the  metropolis  permanently — about  the 
time  her  elder  sister  married  and  went  to  India, 
where  unhappily  she  soon  died.  This  elder  sister, 
some  dozen  years  older  than  Geraldine,  won  fame 
as  a  poetess  and  as  a  writer  of  religious  and  moral 
essays  and  sketches  ;  and  I  remember  in  my  own 
girlhood  how  popular  her  works  were.  I  think 
I  paired  off  her  poetry  with  that  of  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Dale,  whose  verses,  like  hers,  were,  in  the 
early  days  of  albums,  often  copied  out  to  enrich 
them.  But  the  literary  productions  of  the  two  sisters 


GERALDINE  E.   JEWSBURY.  237 

were  so  different  that  it  would  be  invidious  to  contrast 
or  compare  them. 

Geraldine's  talents  were  very  varied,  and  she 
exercised  them  through  long  years  in  a  most  in- 
dustrious manner.  Her  novels — especially  "The 
Half  Sisters  "  "  Marian  Withers  "  and  "The  Sorrows 
of  Gentility" — showed  that  she  possessed  the  re- 
sources necessary  to  form  a  great  novelist.  A  quick, 
though  quiet  observer,  a  shrewd  judge  of  character, 
with  great  command  of  language,  shown  often  in 
epigrammatic  wit,  either  in  conversation  or  with 
the  pen,  she  never  failed  to  express  her  meaning 
lucidly.  She  was  a  very  intimate  friend  of  the 
Carlyles ;  and  one  writer  speaks  of  her  mind  having 
been  influenced  by  Carlyle's  writing ;  but  that  was 
eminently  the  case  with  many  men  and  women  of 
her  generation.  From  every  great  writer  there 
emanates  a  wide-spreading  influence,  and  as  time 
passes  on  the  dross  of  it  falls  away.  Carlyle  was 
not  a  demi-god  ;  but,  perhaps,  the  reason  he  is  a  little 
underrated  now  is  that  he  did  his  work  so  well  that 
many  of  the  abuses  he  attacked  have  been  swept 
away. 

I  think,  however,  that  Geraldine  Jewsbury  was 
more  especially  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Carlyle  than  of 
her  husband.  I  remember  one  occasion  when  I 
called  on  Miss  Jewsbury,  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  announced 
as  a  visitor  also ;  she  was  richly  but  soberly  attired, 
and  came  in  her  carriage — what  a  contrast  to  those 


238  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

early  conditions  of  struggle  and  privation  with  which 
the  world  is  now  acquainted !  The  visit  occurred  a 
year  or  two  before  Mrs.  Carlyle's  sad  death  in  Hyde 
Park,  when  Geraldine  Jewsbury  was  one  of  the  two 
friends  who  were  summoned  to  St.  George's  Hospital 
to  identify  the  body.  She  spoke  of  the  occasion  to 
me,  but  with  great  emotion.  She  told  me  also  the  story 
of  "  the  candles,"  some  account  of  which  has  crept  into 
print,  or  I  should  refrain  from  repeating  it,  though 
surely  it  does  honour  to  both  of  the  dead  !  Geraldine 
knew  that  in  the  early  days  of  her  married  life  Mrs. 
Carlyle  had  been  rebuked  on  some  occasion  by  her 
mother  for  burning  more  candles  than  were  necessary. 
Not  content  with  extinguishing  them,  she  had  put 
them  carefully  away,  keeping  them,  as  a  memento, 
through  the  long  years  in  a  closet  in  her  bedroom. 
Not  only  had  Geraldine  the  sad  task  of  identifying 
the  body ;  she  also  looked  on  the  remains  of  her 
beloved  friend,  as  she  lay  in  her  coffin  just  before 
the  lid  was  closed  down ;  then  the  sudden  thought 
came  to  her  that  these  treasured  candles  should  be 
buried  with  the  dead.  She  knew  where  to  find  them, 
and  with  her  own  hand  placed  them  in  the  coffin. 

Geraldine  Jewsbury  had  many  staunch  friends,  and 
was  herself  a  staunch  friend  to  many.  She  was  one 
of  the  most  sincere  persons  I  ever  knew.  Her  con- 
nection with  the  Athen&um  was  well  known,  and 
she  was  often  consulted  on  literary  matters ;  but  she 
had  so  strong  a  sense  of  duty  that  I  do  not  think 


GERALD1NE  E.  JEWSBURY.  239 

for  her  best  friend  she  would  have  written  a  word  of 
undeserved  praise,  or  for  her  worst  enemy — if  she 
had  enemies — a  word  of  unmerited  censure.  Also,  she 
read  for  publishers,  an  occupation  that  I  cannot 
but  think  helped  to  impair  her  eyesight,  which  failed 
greatly  at  last.  In  reading  the  manuscripts  sub- 
mitted to  her  I  know  she  always  conscientiously 
considered  her  duty  to  her  employers,  knowing  very 
well  that  many  works  might  have  merits  that  appealed 
only  to  the  few,  and  could  not  be  published  under 
the  same  conditions  as  those  likely  to  be  instantly 
popular.  She  had  very  broad  sympathies,  but  I  am 
sure  that  no  work,  however  clever,  with  the  trail  of 
the  serpent  about  it  would  have  received  her  "  recom- 
mendation." 

I  think  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  Geraldine  Jews- 
bury  did  not  give  fuller  scope  to  her  powers  of 
original  writing ;  but,  after  all,  the  world  is  indebted 
to  her  for  much  refined  and  subtle  criticism,  and, 
probably,  for  the  publication  in  good  time  of  many 
valuable  works,  that  might  have  long  lain  dormant 
but  for  her  insight  and  the  judgment  formed  upon 
it.  Of  course  these  double  duties  must  have  estab- 
lished the  mental  attitude  of  looking  critically  on 
all  books  that  came  before  her ;  and,  moreover,  when 
literary  plans  and  projects  were  discussed  before  her, 
or  her  opinion  was  asked,  her  advice  was  always 
most  valuable.  She  had,  too,  the  happiest  manner 
of  indicating  a  fault  or  a  weak  spot,  always,  while 


24o  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

pointing  it  out,  recognizing  the  merit  that  made  it 
"  such  a  pity  "  to  leave  the  imperfection  standing.  I 
am  certain  it  gave  her  real  pleasure  to  praise,  and 
more  or  less  pain  to  censure. 

Allowing  for  the  very  different  circumstances  of 
their  lives,  I  think  there  were  several  points  of  simi- 
larity between  Geraldine  Jewsbury  and  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
of  whom  I  had  some  knowledge  before  the  occasion 
to  which  I  have  referred.  Such  points  of  similarity 
are  often  to  be  observed  among  very  intimate  friends 
— perhaps  they  are  partly  the  occasion  of  the  friend- 
ship, and  are  fostered  by  it.  Charles  Dickens,  who 
did  not  much  admire  literary  women,  is  reported  to 
have  said  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  more  talent  than  the 
"  whole  pack  of  them."  I  think  those  were  his  words. 
In  my  opinion  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  one  of  the  cleverest 
women  in  the  world,  and  might  have  distinguished 
herself  in  the  same  fields  of  literature  as  her  friend, 
had  she  so  willed  it.  But  she  was  so  true  a  woman 
that  all  her  ambition  centred  in,  and  was  for  her 
husband.  Indeed  the  world  is  little  likely  to  know 
its  indebtedness  to  her  as  the  prop  of  the  Chelsea 
home,  and  the  smoother  of  difficulties  that  stood  in 
the  way  of  Carlyle's  work.  Like  Geraldine  Jewsbury, 
she  was  always  loyal  to  her  own  sex.  Both  talked 
well  in  the  old-fashioned  style  of  good  conversation- 
alists— that  is,  without  arguing  or  haranguing  ;  each 
had  a  quick  appreciation  of  circumstances,  and  the 
happy  faculty  of  seeing  clearly  what  was  morally 


FRANCES  BROWN.  241 

right  to  do,  and  also  the  expediency  from  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  often  by  some  happy  suggestion,  of 
reconciling  the  two  courses.  Both  were  witty,  even 
satirical  sometimes,  but  without  malice.  One  of 
Geraldine  Jewsbury's  most  severe  little  speeches, 
d  propos  of  theological  cant,  was  the  wish  that  certain 
people  could  be  "  poisoned  with  a  decoction  of  their 
own  tongues."  And  once  she  said  a  wiser  thing 
when  she  declared  that  "  no  one  was  good  for  any- 
thing until  well  broken-up  by  suffering." 

I  am  tempted  to  make  this  chapter  a  triad  of 
single-woman  authoresses,  as  diverse  in  their  genius 
as  they  were  in  the  circumstances  of  their  lives.  The 
present  generation  seems  to  know  nothing  of  Frances 
Brown,  the  blind  poetess ;  but  about  the  middle  of 
the  century  her  name  was  well  before  the  world,  and 
a  few  years  later  her  merits  were  sufficiently  recog- 
nized for  her  to  receive  a  government  pension.  I 
cannot  remember  what  incident  it  was  that  led  to 
our  acquaintance,  but  well  recollect  her  coming  by 
appointment  to  spend  an  afternoon  with  us.  Of 
course  she  was  accompanied  by  the  sister  who  had 
so  long  been  devoted  to  her,  and  whose  subsequent 
marriage  doubtless  made  a  great  change  in  Frances 
Brown's  way  of  life.  They  were  the  daughters  of 
the  village  postmaster  at  Shanorlar,  county  Donegal ; 
and  Frances  lost  her  sight,  at  three  years  of  age,  from 
virulent  small-pox,  as  I  heard.  The  family  must  have 

R 


242  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

been  somewhat  superior  to  their  station  for  the  blind 
girl  to  have  profited,  as  we  are  told  she  did,  by  the 
lessons  of  her  brothers  and  sisters.  I  found  my 
visitors  well-bred  gentlewomen,  whose  fluent  and 
interesting  conversation  was  only  rendered  the  more 
piquant  by  the  slight  Irish  brogue  which  flavoured  it. 
The  first  thing  which  struck  me  in  Frances  was  her 
very  exquisite  figure,  set  off  to  advantage  by  a  simple 
but  well-fitting  dress.  She  was  just  about,  or  but 
slightly  above  the  middle  height,  and  a  painter  or 
sculptor  would  have  delighted  in  the  lines  of  beauty 
that  were  revealed  in  her  movements.  I  remember 
also  thinking  she  would  have  been  handsome  but  for 
the  darkened  vision,  and  some  most  disfiguring 
vestiges  of  the  fell  disease  which  had  afflicted  her. 
She  moved  with  such  ease  that  it  was  difficult  at 
first — and  until  some  little  incident  was  evidence  of 
it — to  believe  in  her  infirmity.  Her  memory  was 
most  retentive,  and  her  mind  singularly  receptive, 
.for  she  seemed  fairly  well  acquainted  with  the 
topics  of  the  day  and  its  current  publications,  and, 
better  still,  with  many  sterling  works  which  are  the 
glory  of  English  literature. 

There  is  always  something  intensely  pathetic  in 
genius  deprived  of  its  needful  culture;  but  God's  ways 
are  not  man's  ways,  and  there  must  be  some  hidden 
purpose  in  the  cases  of  arrested  mental  development 
which  we  often  see.  When  we  consider  the  touching 
and  graceful  verses  of  Frances  Brown — not  to  men- 


POETIC  CULTURE.  243 

tion  her  prose  works — we  can  but  vaguely  conjecture 
what  she  might  have  done  under  happier  circum- 
stances. It  is  truly  said  that  the  poet  is  "born,  not 
made,"  and  yet,  of  all  mental  workers,  he  surely 
requires  wide,  varied,  and  ever  -  increasing  culture. 
If  he  has  it  not  we  can  but  expect  from  him  the 
outpourings  of  his  own  emotions  and  experiences, 
instead  of  the  broad  sympathy  and  extended  know- 
ledge which  enable  him  to  revivify  some  dead  hero, 
or  present  to  our  mind's  eye  great  events,  with  life- 
like reality  embalming  them  for  ever — as  our  greatest 
poets  have  done — through  the  spell  of  poetic  eluci- 
dation and  imagery.  The  poetic  gift  is  surely  some- 
thing like  a  fountain  that  requires  to  be  perpetually 
fed  by  mountain  streams.  Alas  for  the  poets,  blind 
from  infancy !  alas  for  the  peasant  poets,  from  the 
typical  one,  Robert  Burns,  downwards,  whose  poetic 
faculty,  if  unbalanced  by  the  highest  moral  nature, 
more  often  unfits  them  for  the  useful  and  active  duties 
of  life  than  renders  them  happy !  But,  fortunately 
for  the  world,  there  are  "  mute  inglorious  Miltons," 
who  are  not  aspiring,  but  who,  by  patience  and  self- 
sacrifice,  unconsciously  make  of  their  lives  acted 
poetry.  To  them  be  the  honour  and  reverence  with 
which  they  but  seldom  meet ! 


244  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A  serious  chapter — Professor  de  Morgan — Rev.  J.  G.  Wood — Sir 
George  Barker,  K.C.B. — Robert  Chambers — Professor  Ansted — 
Professor  Skinner. 

THE  years  from  1854  to  1857,  inclusive,  formed  a 
very  memorable  period  to  several  eminent  persons* 
with  whom  I  had  the  privilege  of  being  acquainted. 
I  am  very  unwilling  to  offend  deep-rooted  prejudices, 
which  may  originally  have  had  "  a  leaning  to  virtue's 
side,"  at  the  same  time  I  should  be  a  moral  craven— 
which  I  am  happy  to  believe  a  woman  seldom  is — 
if  I  omitted  from  the  record  of  my  recollections 
circumstances  which  not  a  few  persons  have  con- 
sidered the  most  important  in  their  lives.  I  allude 
to  that  outpouring  of  spiritual  manifestations  which 
came  upon  the  world  about  the  period  mentioned 
above. 

Let  me  begin  by  saying  that  I  never,  but  once,  paid 
a  shilling  to  a  professional  medium,  and  that  once 
was  at  the  urgent  solicitation  of  a  friend,  and  when 
visiting  a  seer.  Nor  did  I  ever  attend  a  public 
seance.  My  experience  came  through  the  medium- 


SPIRITUALISM.  245 

ship  of  private  friends,  personages  of  unblemished 
character,  and  of  intellect  far  above  the  average. 
First  on  the  list  I  may  mention  a  lady,  now  the 
widow  of  a  physician,  but  whose  name,  as  she  happily 
still  lives,  I  will  refrain  from  mentioning.  From 
royalty  downwards  she  has  been  an  influence  in 
numerous  lives,  in  breaking  up  the  rusty  fetters  of 
materialism,  or  in  making  stable  a  wavering  faith  in 
immortality  and  in  the  unseen  powers  which  surround 
us.  Some  of  the  communications  received  through 
her  have  been  more  explanatory  of,  or  suggestive  of, 
profound  truths,  than  any  theological  or  philosophical 
work  I  can  call  to  mind. 

Of  established  facts  nothing  can  be  more  certain 
than  that  up  to  the  time  of  the  Reformation  all 
Christendom  not  only  believed  in  the  reality  of 
spiritual  beings  that  were  constantly  about  us,  but 
that,  under  some  circumstances,  they  manifested  their 
presence  ;  and,  happily,  the  Anglican  Prayer-book 
retains  abundant  evidence  of  such  faith  being  only 
proper  to  the  Christian  mind.  The  great  nations  of 
antiquity  had  a  like  belief,  which  may  be  traced  back 
through  all  history  to  its  earliest  records  ;  and,  though 
we  over-elated  nineteenth-century  people,  "  heirs  of 
all  the  ages,"  fancy  ourselves  lifted  on  to  their 
shoulders,  it  may  be  that  in  our  vain  attempts  to 
reach  that  eminence  we  sometimes  slip  down  to  be 
really  at  their  feet.  It  was  better  to  believe  in 
Charon  and  the  Elysian  Fields  than  to  be  a  rank 


246  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

materialist ;  and  it  is  admitted  that  the  fantasies 
of  the  heathen  mythology  contained  suggestions  of 
truth  that  were  the  preparation  for  the  Divine  light 
that  was  to  come  on  the  world. 

All  the  creeds  that  throughout  the  long  ages  have 
sustained  the  human  soul  agree  in  one  particular, 
that  is,  in  the  conflict  between  good  and  evil  which  is 
constantly  going  on  about  us.  What  is  called  modern 
spiritualism  is  full  of  warnings  on  this  subject ;  and, 
from  the  experience  of  nearly  half  my  long  life,  I 
would  implore  seekers  for  knowledge  on  this  subject 
to  be  on  their  guard,  and  to  remember  that  when  the 
door  which  communicates  with  the  outside  world  is 
opened — as  it  is  by  mediumship — foes  as  well  as 
friends  can  enter.  I  speak  reverently  of  the  Bible 
when  I  remind  my  readers  that  it  is  throughout  a 
history  of  spiritual  manifestations,  and  of  miracles — 
in  other  words,  of  higher  laws  superseding  ordinary 
ones. 

This  universal  belief  is  the  primary  fact  which 
should  make  sceptics  hesitate,  with  some  approach  to 
humility,  and,  rightly  understood,  must,  to  the  believ- 
ing student  of  history  and  biography,  make  what  have 
been  stumbling-blocks  to  thousands  fall  symmetrically 
into  their  places,  like  the  pieces  of  a  puzzle  map, 
each  a  separate  truth,  yet  harmonizing  with  all  the 
rest. 

Let  me,  however,  proceed  to  the  mention  of  names. 
About  the  year  1863  there  was  published  by  Messrs. 


PROFESSOR  AND  MRS.   DE  MORGAN.  247 

Longman  and  Co.  a  thick  octavo  volume,  entitled, 
"From  Matter  to  Spirit;"  though  I  do  not 
think  the  phrase  "  an  open  secret "  was  then  adopted, 
it  would  exactly  have  applied  to  the  authorship  of 
this  book.  On  the  title-page  is  printed,  "  by  C.  D," 
and  the  preface  is  signed  "  A.  B. "  ;  but  it  was  widely 
known  that  the  body  of  the  work  was  written  by 
Mrs.  de  Morgan,  being  the  record  of  her  ten  years' 
personal  experience  of  spiritual  phenomena,  and 
that  the  preface  was  written  by  her  husband,  the 
grave  and  learned  professor  of  mathematics  and 
writer  on  logic.  I  propose  to  extract  the  opening 
paragraphs  of  this  preface,  the  cautious  wording  of 
which  excites  the  admiration  of  a  thoughtful  reader, 
so  opposite  is  it  to  the  unreasoning  fervour  of  a 
fanatic. 

"It  is  but  now  and  then  that  a  preface  is  contributed  by  one  who  is 
not  the  author  ;  and  only  now  and  not  then,  or  then  and  not  now,  that 
the  writer  of  the  preface  declares  he  will  not  stand  committed  either  for 
or  against  the  conclusions  of  the  book.  But  this  happens  in  the  present 
case.  I  am  satisfied  by  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses  of  some  of  the 
facts  narrated  :  of  some  others  I  have  evidence  as  good  as  testimony  can 
give.  I  am  perfectly  convinced  that  I  have  both  seen  and  heard  in  a 
manner  which  should  make  unbelief  impossible,  things  called  spiritual 
which  cannot  be  taken  by  a  rational  being  to  be  capable  of  explanation 
by  imposture,  coincidence,  or  mistake.  So  far  I  feel  the  ground  firm 
under  me.  But  when  it  comes  to  what  is  the  cause  of  these  phenomena, 
I  find  I  cannot  adopt  any  explanation  which  has  yet  been  suggested. 
If  I  were  bound  to  choose  among  things  which  I  can  conceive,  I  should 
say  there  is  some  combination  of  will,  intellect,  and  physical  power,  which 
is  not  that  of  any  of  the  human  beings  present.  But  thinking  it  very 
likely  that  the  universe  may  contain  a  few  agencies,  say  half  a  million, 
about  which  no  man  knows  anything,  I  cannot  but  suspect  that  a  small 


248  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

proportion  of  these  agencies — say  five  thousand — may  be  severally 
competent  to  the  production  of  all  the  phenomena,  or  may  be  quite  up 
to  the  task  among  them.  The  physical  explanations  I  have  seen  are 
easy,  but  miserably  insufficient ;  the  spiritual  hypothesis  is  sufficient  but 
ponderously  difficult.  Time  and  thought  will  decide,  the  second  asking 
the  first  for  more  results  of  trial." 

The  last  italics  are  mine,  adopted  to  mark  a  most 
significant  sentence.  The  professor's  preface  extends 
to  upwards  of  forty  pages  of  learned  and  philosophic 
writing,  but,  instead  of  the  spiritual  theory  being 
weakened,  every  other  hypothesis  seems  eliminated, 
though  without  exact  avowal  of  the  fact.  Mrs.  de 
Morgan  was  a  remarkably  clear-headed,  conscientious 
woman,  and  relates,  for  the  most  part,  experiences 
that  occurred  under  her  own  roof,  with  mediums  who 
were  members  of  her  family  or  household. 

The  next  authority  I  shall  cite  is  the  Rev.  J.  G. 
Wood,  the  well-known  naturalist.  He  might  well  be 
a  believer  in  spiritual  communications,  for  he  was 
himself  a  medium  for  them.  About  the  year  1857 
he  had  occasion  to  write  to  me  on  the  subject,  and 
about  some  original  translations  he  was  making — 
from  St.  Paul's  Epistles,  I  think  they  were — which  he 
considered  harmonized  with  our  experiences,  and  he 
added  in  a  parenthesis,  "  the  raps  have  been  going  on 
all  the  time  while  I  was  writing  the  translation."  He 
was,  to  some  extent,  a  seeing  medium  as  well  as  a 
rapping  one,  occasionally  discerning  the  atmosphere 
about  people.  But,  an  enlightened  Biblical  student, 
and  strong  in  his  faith,  he  was  one  of  those  who 


SIR  GEORGE  BARKER,  R.C.B.  249 

might  be  said  not  to  need  spiritualism  ;  and,  having 
once  or  twice  been  deceived  by  "  lying  spirits  "  in  his 
later  years,  I  believe  he  rather  resisted  the  influence 
than  encouraged  it.  He  was  fully  convinced  of  the 
apparitions  of  animals,  as  well  as  of  human  beings, 
and  in  his  very  interesting  work,  "  Man  and  Beast," 
he  boldly  argues,  and  on  Biblical  authority,  in  favour 
of  the  immortality  of  all  creatures  which  have  breathed 
the  breath  of  life. 

Next  I  will  cite  the  honoured  name  of  Brigadier- 
General  Sir  George  Barker,  K.C.B.,*  only  Colonel 
Barker,  C.B.,  when  we  first  knew  him,  shortly  after  his 
return  from  the  Crimea,  where  he  had  greatly  dis- 
tinguished himself.  Now,  I  think  it  will  be  conceded 
that  an  artillery  officer  must,  from  the  nature  of  his 
studies  and  duties,  be  a  man  of  some  strength  of 
mind,  a  mathematician  of  no  mean  order,  and  one 
well  qualified  to  reason  on  cause  and  effect.  Such  a 
man,  undoubtedly,  was  Sir  George  Barker,  somewhat 
reticent  in  manner,  as  deep  thinkers  often  are,  though 
keenly  observant.  Yet  he  was  not  only  a  believer  in 
the  spiritual  manifestations  he  witnessed,  but  a  writing 
medium  himself.  Though  ordered  to  India  imme- 
diately on  the  news  of  the  mutiny  reaching  England, 
he  found  half  an  hour  out  of  the  brief  time  at  his 
disposal  to  do  us  the  honour  of  calling  to  say  farewell, 

*  His  widow,  as  Lady  Barker,  won  for  herself  an  honourable  literary 
position,  until  by  her  second  marriage  she  merged  the  name  into  that  of 
Lady  Broome. 


250  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

in  recognition  of,  what  he  was  pleased  to  consider, 
spiritual  privileges  under  our  roof. 

In  mentioning  the  names  of  eminent  persons  with 
whom  I  was  personally  acquainted,  who,  after  careful 
investigation,  were  steadfast  believers  in  the  truth 
of  spiritual  phenomena,  I  must  not  omit  my  dear 
friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  and  also  William  and 
Mary  Howitt,  and  their  daughter  Anna  Mary,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Watts.  As,  however,  they  have  all  left 
behind  them  their  testimony  on  the  subject,  I  need 
not  enlarge  on  it.  Yet  I  may  mention  that  Anna 
Mary  was  a  very  powerful  medium,  the  mediumship 
showing  itself  in  various  ways.  I  have  myself  seen 
her  hand  seized  and  guided,  apparently  more  against 
her  will  than  in  accordance  with  it ;  and  drawings, 
generally  of  a  symbolic  character,  were  produced  under 
the  influence,  without  her  knowing  what  they  meant, 
until  interpreted  by  some  other  method  of  communi- 
cation. 

I  well  remember,  on  one  special  occasion,  this  sort 
of  thing  occurring,  when  her  hand  had  a  pencil  in  it, 
and  she  seemed  forced  to  draw  on  a  scrap  of  paper, 
that  chanced  to  be  on  the  table,  though  wholly  un- 
conscious of  what  she  was  going  to  produce.  The 
drawing  proved  to  be  a  very  elaborate  one,  yet  did  not 
occupy  more  than  a  very  few  minutes.  But  I  men- 
tion the  circumstance  because,  during  the  process, 
which  I  watched  with  interest,  I  distinctly  saw  a 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS,   LL.D.  251 

minute  spark  of  light  at  the  point  of  the  pencil,  which 
was  a  common  cedar  one. 

Of  course,  as  Miss  Howitt,  in  her  normal  state,  was 
a  very  charming  artist,  sceptics  doubted  the  inspira- 
tion which  produced  these  symbolic  drawings  ;  but, 
besides  that,  she  was  a  woman  of  a  most  sensitive  con- 
science, and  no  one  could  witness  such  a  little  incident 
as  I  have  described  and  retain  any  doubt  on  the  sub- 
ject. Indeed,  I  consider  she  was  one  of  the  martyrs 
to  the  cause  of  truth,  for  the  different  manifestations 
which  came  through  her  exhausted  her  physical 
frame  ;  and,  of  all  the  similarly  endowed  people  I  have 
known,  she  seemed  the  least  capable  of  resisting  the 
influence  when  it  came  upon  her.  That  there  is  a 
resisting  and  an  encouraging  of  the  power  there  can 
be  no  doubt. 

I  now  come  to  a  name  that  is  worthy  of  being 
bracketed  with  the  noblest  of  those  I  have  mentioned. 
I  allude  to  that  of  my  old  and  valued  friend  Robert 
Chambers,  of  whom  mention  is  made  in  an  earlier 
chapter.  Always  a  lover  and  seeker  of  truth,  he  was 
one  of  the  earliest  investigators  of  the  phenomena  of 
which  I  am  writing.  Too  patient  and  careful  to  be 
quick  in  forming  a  decided  opinion,  years  of  investi- 
gation passed  before  he  arrived  at  a  definite  con- 
clusion. He  had,  in  a  quiet  manner,  weighed  all 
arguments  on  the  phenomena;  but,  like  Professor 
de  Morgan,  was  convinced  that  imposture  or  co- 


252  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

incidence  could  not  account  for  them.  Every  one 
will  admit  that  a  conjuror  may  produce  a  clumsy 
imitation  of  such  things,  but  then  he  must  be  pro- 
vided with,  at  least,  a  barrow-load  of  apparatus. 
I  say  a  "clumsy"  imitation,  because  no  one  accus- 
tomed to  the  genuine  raps  has  ever  confounded 
imitations  with  them  ;  and  the  liftings,  the  tiltings, 
and  the  removal  of  heavy  articles  to  a  distance, 
accomplished  by  the  would  be  "  exposers,"  all  require 
mundane  appliances.  But  our  friend,  the  young  lady 
medium,  through  whom  such  wonderful  things  hap- 
pened, brought  no  machinery  with  her.  A  fan  and 
pocket-handkerchief,  and,  perhaps,  a  scent-bottle,  were 
the  most  I  ever  saw  her  carry,  and  I  doubt  if  her  light 
summer  dresses  had  even  pockets  in  them.  I  think 
when  Robert  Chambers,  Sir  George  Barker,  and  Mr, 
Wood  met  at  our  house,  it  was  a  great  satisfaction  to 
find  themselves  in  accord,  and  about  equally  interested 
in  the  young  lady  to  whom  they  were  owing  so  much. 
On  one  occasion,  when  we  had  a  little  gathering  of 
like-minded  investigators,  the  room  in  which  we  sat 
was  shaken  as  by  a  storm,  yet  in  a  manner  impossible 
fully  to  describe.  The  floor  vibrated  under  our  feet, 
and  the  window-shutters  rattled,  as  if  they  would 
burst  from  their  fastenings,  and  for  a  few  seconds  I 
feared  the  house  was  in  danger.  I  believe  we  all  felt, 
but  reverently  I  hope,  that  it  recalled  that  passage  in 
the  second  chapter  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  in 
which  it  is  said,  "  And  suddenly  there  came  a  sound 


D.  D.  HOME   THE  MEDIUM.  253 

from  heaven  as  of  a  rushing  mighty  wind,  and  it  filled 
all  the  house  where  they  were  sitting." 

I  remember  Robert  Chambers  was  greatly  struck 
by  this  occurrence,  and  realized  what  an  aid  to  belief 
in  miracles  some  experience  of  the  phenomena  was. 
He  was  among  the  first  who  perceived  that,  while  the 
laws  which  regulate  "  matter  "  are  undoubtedly  rigid 
and  inflexible,  the  laws  which  regulate  "  spirit "  are 
hidden  from  us  on  the  other  side  of  the  veil. 
Electricity,  magnetism,  and,  probably,  other  but  un- 
known imponderable  forces  form  the  bridge  between 
the  two.  I  believe  it  was  Mrs.  Browning  who  first 
applied  the  phrase  tertium  quid  to  these  forces. 

Robert  Chambers  was  a  great  friend  of  D.  D. 
Home's,  and  it  was  said  that  he  was  the  "  literary 
friend  "  who  wrote  the  introductory  remarks  to  Mr. 
Home's  book,  entitled  "  Incidents  in  my  Life  ; "  and 
I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  I  believe  he  had  the 
same  opinion  of  Mr.  Home  as  that  which  was  held 
by  the  butler  of  some  friends  of  ours,  at  whose 
house  Mr.  Home  used  to  stay,  sometimes  for  weeks 
together.  When  the  great  medium  was  exposed  to 
cruel  slander,  some  of  which,  of  course,  reached  the 
servants'  hall,  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  family  spoke 
to  the  butler  on  the  subject,  the  man  replying, 
"Lor',  miss,  Mr.  Home's  too  simple  a  creature  to 
deceive  even  a  child." 

I  only  saw  Mr.  Home  three  times,  but  thought 
there  was  something  very  unaffected  and  winning 


254  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

about  him  ;  and  I  knew  several  of  his  most  inti- 
mate friends,  who  all  spoke  of  him  with  respect  and 
affection.  Robert  Chambers  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C. 
Hall  were  among  those  who  esteemed  him  most 
highly. 

I  think  Robert  Chambers  was  the  first  to  notice 
that  the  movement  of  our  table  always  began  by 
adjusting  itself  due  north  and  south.  As  it  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  it  required  the  irregularity 
of  about  six  inches  to  render  it  so.  We  had  often 
observed  that  the  first  token  of  the  unseen  intelli- 
gence was  to  make  this  movement ;  and  one  evening 
Robert  Chambers  took  a  little  compass  from  his  pocket, 
it  having  occurred  to  him  that,  where  magnetism 
was  so  distinctly  associated  with  the  phenomena,  it 
would  be  desirable  to  verify  precisely  the  aspect  of 
the  house.  From  the  beginning  he  investigated  with 
patience  and  acumen.  The  letters  he  wrote  to  me 
on  the  subject  were  headed  "  private,"  and,  of  course, 
treated  as  such ;  but,  though  for  a  long  time  reticent 
to  the  world  at  large  on  the  subject  of  spiritualism, 
that  he  could  speak  of  it  among  friends  the  following 
extract  from  a  letter  I  received  from  Mrs.  Crowe  will 
show.  The  letter  is  dated  3,  Porchester  Terrace 
(Mrs.  Loudon's  residence),  Friday,  May  I5th — there 
ought  have  been  added,  1857. 

"  I  came  to  town  last  Wednesday,  and  this  morning 
Robert  Chambers  has  called  and  told  us  of  the 
wonders  that  are  doing  at  Blackheath.  I  had  heard 


MR.  HEAPHTS  STORY.  255 

something  of  the  sort  from  Mr.  John  Barker  *  and 
was  intending  to  write  to  you  and  ask  for  the 
Loudons  and  myself  the  favour  of  an  interview  with 
Miss  A.,  but  R.  C.  tells  me  you  are  going  from  home 
and  cannot  receive  any  more.  Under  the  circum- 
stances, can  any  other  arrangement  be  made  ?  or  will 
it  be  better  to  wait  till  you  return  ? " 

The  opinion  of  Robert  Chambers  on  the  manifes- 
tations, however,  became  at  last  pretty  generally 
known,  and  for  many  years  past  "  Robert  Chambers, 
LL.D."  has  regularly  appeared  in  the  lists  of  eminent 
adherents  in  the  numerous  publications  devoted  to 
the  subject.  I  ought  to  mention  that,  returning  to 
town  after  an  evening  at  our  house,  he  told  a  fellow 
guest,  likewise  a  literary  man,  that  he  had  destroyed 
a  manuscript  representing  the  labours  of  three  years, 
in  consequence  of  the  overthrow  of  old  opinions 
occasioned  by  the  manifestations.  I  wonder  if  it  was 
some  work  on  the  same  lines  as  the  famous  "Ves- 
tiges," a  book  allowed  to  remain  "  out  of  print "  so 
long  before  its  author's  death. 

My  "  serious  chapter  "  is  nearly  ended ;  but  there 
are  still  two  circumstances  I  should  like  to  mention. 
Some  time  after  the  publication  in  one  of  Charles 
Dickens's  periodicals — All  the  Year  Round,  I  think — of 
that  remarkable  article,  called  "  Mr.  H.'s  Narrative," 
I  was  invited  to  meet  the  artist  at  dinner  by  common 

*  Brother  of  Sir  George. 


256  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

friends  for  the  express  purpose  of  hearing  the  narra- 
tion of  his  extraordinary  adventure  from  his  own  lips. 
I  sat  next  him  at  dinner,  and  had  as  much  conversa- 
tion as  it  was  easy  to  maintain  with  a  man  so  deaf 
that  he  used  a  trumpet.  To  be  sure  my  object  was 
to  listen,  not  to  talk,  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
hearing  Mr.  Heaphy  himself  give  the  true,  unvarnished 
story,  as  he  afterwards  contributed  it  to  All  the 
Year  Round (No.  128,  October  5th,  1861).  The  first 
version  which  appeared  was  inaccurate  in  several 
particulars,  having  been  compiled  from  rumour,  and 
dressed  up  like  an  ordinary  magazine  article. 

It  is  well  worth  reading  as  a  singularly  graphic 
and  interesting  narrative  of  the  spirit  of  a  young 
girl,  whom  in  life  he  had  never  seen,  appearing  to 
Mr.  Heaphy  to  assist  him  in  painting  a  portrait  of 
her,  which  the  bereaved  father  had  commissioned 
him  to  execute  from  description  and  an  imperfect 
print  of  some  one  else,  supposed  to  be  like  her. 

In  the  summer  of  1863  I  spent  a  delightful  ten 
days  with  my  dear  old  friends,  Professor  Ansted  and 
his  accomplished  wife.  They  then  occupied  Im- 
pington  Hall,  a  fine  old-fashioned  mansion,  about 
three  miles  from  Cambridge.  An  excellent  amateur 
actor,  a  keen  judge  and  admirable  reader  of  poetry, 
he  was  more  many-sided  than  men  of  science  usually 
are.  From  the  nature  of  his  pursuits  he  had  travelled 
much,  and  mixed  in  the  intellectual  circles  of  nearly 


PROFESSOR   GEORGE  SKINNER.  257 

every  capital  in  Europe — by  the  way,  I  remember  him 
saying  that  the  Athenian  women  were,  as  a  rule,  the 
most  cultivated  of  any  he  had  found.  But  he  took 
only  a  languid  interest  in  occult  matters,  though  he 
listened  with  respect  to  the  accounts  he  heard  from 
many  quarters  of  spiritual  phenomena.  Perhaps, 
however,  his  comparative  indifference  was  to  be 
accounted  for  by  his  thoroughness  ;  so  that,  had  he 
allowed  himself  deliberately  to  begin  an  investigation 
of  them,  he  would  have  found  himself  drawn  away, 
to  an  inconvenient  degree,  from  those  pursuits  on 
which  he  was  imperatively  engaged. 

Being  himself  a  Cambridge  man,  of  course  he  had 
the  opportunity  of  showing  to  a  visitor  everything  in 
the  University  that  was  most  interesting.  Being 
also  an  M.A.,  he  knew,  I  suppose,  all  the  dons ;  and 
among  them  I  was  introduced  to  a  very  interesting 
old  man  of  upwards  of  seventy  years  of  age,  Mr. 
George  Skinner,  Professor  of  Hebrew.  One  evening 
he  spent  at  the  Ansteds,  and  another  we  passed  at 
his  house,  mainly  for  the  purpose  of  our  conversing 
on  the  subject  of  the  spiritual  phenomena,  which,  of 
late  years,  had  occupied  so  many  thoughtful  minds, 
and  of  which  a  member  of  his  family  had  been 
the  subject  of  some  startling  experience.  He  must 
have  been  a  man  accustomed  to  weigh  evidence, 
for  he  listened  attentively  to  all  I  said.  His  interest 
warmed  with  my  confirmation  of  much  that  he  had 
heard  from  another,  and  I  remember  that  the  tears 

s 


258  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

dimmed  his  eyes  when  he  said,  "  How  can  I  doubt, 

when  M ,  who  never  told  me  a  lie,  describes  these 

things,  and  you  say  just  the  same  ?  You  cannot  tell 
how  happy  it  makes  me  to  have  the  truth  proved  of 
what  I  have  been  teaching  all  my  life  !  " 

Surely  there  are  millions — yes,  millions  of  people 
who,  with  a  slight  alteration,  can  echo  these  words  and 
say,  "  How  happy  it  makes  us  to  have  the  truth 
proved  of  what  the  Bible  has  taught  us  all  our 
lives  ! " 


THE  BROWNINGS.  259 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Robert  and  Elizabeth   Barrett  Browning  in  Florence — Mr.  Seymour 
Kirkup — The  sculptors,  Hiram  Powers,  Gibson,  and  Paul  Akers. 

IN  the  autumn  of  1857  I  made  arrangements  with 
friends  to  go  abroad,  and  pass  with  them  the  winter 
in  Italy  ;  and  I  look  upon  the  opportunity  I  had 
of  improving  my  acquaintance  with  Robert  and 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  as  one  of  the  most  note- 
worthy circumstances  of  my  month's  sojourn  in 
Florence.  Two  or  three  kind  notes,  mostly  on  literary 
matters,  and  a  morning  visit  or  two  made  up  all  the 
personal  acquaintance  I  could  hitherto  claim  with  her, 
whom  I  revered  as  the  greatest  of  poetesses,  and  yet 
whom  I  seemed  to  know  intimately  from  my  deep 
womanly  sympathy  with  her  revealings.  The  last  is 
not  a  haphazard  word,  for  I  hold  that  she  does  reveal 
some  heights  and  depths  of  woman's  nature,  in  a 
manner  only  to  be  rivalled  in  a  very  few  instances  by 
the  very  few  greatest  poets. 

Most  kindly  was  I  received  by  both  husband  and 
wife  in  that  Casa  Guidi,  which  has  been  made  famous 
for  ever,  not  only  from  having  given  a  title  to  the 


26o  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

thrilling  poem  which  tells  of  Italy's  wrongs  and 
aspirations,  but  from  having  been  for  many  years  the 
residence  of  its  beloved  author.  To  see  Italy  a  united 
kingdom,  with  rank  and  prestige  among  European 
powers,  seems  to  me  a  thing  over  which  we  may  well 
sing  a  Te  Deum,  and,  oh,  how  Mrs.  Browning  would 
have  rejoiced  had  she  lived  to  witness  it !  But  instead 
of  speculating  on  her  feelings,  let  me  describe  her  as 
best  I  can. 

As,  I  think,  in  all  palatial  houses,  the  suite  of  rooms 
opened  one  into  another.  Robert  Browning  himself 
ushered  me,  on  my  first  visit,  through  one  or  two 
apartments  to  the  drawing-room ;  and  in  a  minute 
or  two  the  hostess  entered  by  a  door  on  the  opposite 
side.  Certainly  she  was  a  little  below  the  middle 
height,  and  the  loftiness  and  spaciousness  of  the  room 
served  to  make  the  fact  more  apparent,  as  she 
approached  me  with  that  gliding  movement,  which  I 
think  has  gone  out  of  fashion,  but  which  in  my  early 
days  used  to  be. called  swan-like.  There  is  a  portrait 
of  her,  engraved  from  a  photograph  taken  in  1859, 
that  is  an  excellent  likeness.  Her  abundant  hair, 
falling  in  long  thick  ringlets,  was  of  chestnut  brown, 
and  her  eyes  were  of  a  similar  hue,  with  a  softness 
and  sweetness  of  expression  not  possible  to  describe. 
This  first  visit  was  very  pleasant  to  me,  but  hardly 
so  pleasant  as  subsequent  ones,  when  we  had  become 
more  intimate.  A  tete-a-t§te  with  Mrs.  Browning 
was  most  enjoyable,  for  her  conversation  was  delight- 


THE  BROWNINGS.  261 

ful.  Full  of  information  of  many  sorts,  when  she 
agreed  with  what  was  said,  she  tossed  back  the 
thought  which  had  pleased  her,  enlarged  and  em- 
bellished ;  if  she  differed  it  was  with  a  gentle  regret, 
quite  devoid  of  obstinate  self-sufficiency.  In  truth, 
in  every  word  and  gesture  she  showed  the  good 
breeding  which,  grafted  on  such  a  nature,  had  rendered 
her  manners  perfectly  charming. 

We  spent  an  evening  at  Casa  Guidi.  I  say  "we," 
because  my  friends  were  kindly  invited  with  me  ;  and 
one  of  them,  a  lover  of  light,  said,  in  jest,  long  after- 
wards, that  though  she  had  called  twice  on  Mrs. 
Browning,  and  passed  an  evening  at  her  house,  she 
had  never  seen  her.  This  was  an  allusion  to  the 
shade  in  which  she  delighted.  By  day  anything  like 
glare  was  excluded,  and,  besides,  we  always  sat  far 
from  the  windows  ;  in  the  evening  the  lamps  were 
shaded — a  delightful  arrangement,  according  to  my 
feelings.  Very  curious  is  it  to  note  the  manner  in 
which  light  affects  different  persons.  We  read  of 
Dickens  writing  in  a  room  flooded  with  sunshine, 
while  many  persons  there  are  who  cannot  even  think 
clearly  in  any  sort  of  strong  light.  I  believe  there 
is  many  a  schoolgirl,  and,  perhaps,  sensitive  school- 
boy, who  is  held  back  in  the  educational  race  by 
being  subjected  to  the  strong  light,  which  some 
scientists  have  written  about  as  being  good  for 
everybody. 

On  the   evening   we   spent   at   Casa   Guidi,   Mrs. 


262  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

Browning  presided  at  the  tea-table,  and  the  hissing- 
urn  was  a  pleasant  reminder  of  England.  T.  A. 
Trollope  was  of  the  little  party,  a  man  not  so  widely 
known  as  his  brother,  for  his  genius  was  of  the  rare 
sort  that  appeals  to  the  few  rather  than  to  the 
many.  As  much  at  heart  a  Florentine  as  I  think 
the  Brownings  were,  his  stories  of  Italian  life  are 
unique  in  their  excellence.  He  wrote  also  with 
great  force  on  the  state  of  Italian  affairs.  Public 
events  of  course  became  a  theme  of  conversa- 
tion. The  Indian  mutiny  was  only  just  quelled  ; 
British  troops  had  been  conveyed  to  the  scene  of 
action  through  France,  and  the  entente  cordiale 
between  England  and  France  was  a  source  of  re- 
joicing to  most  people.  Very  naturally,  the  conver- 
sation glided  into  a  discussion  on  Louis  Napoleon — 
of  his  antecedents,  his  character,  and  his  present 
position  as  emperor.  I  found  it  a  rare  treat  to  listen 
— if  I  may  use  a  metaphor — to  the  clash  of  weapons 
in  the  wordy  battle  which  followed,  Mrs.  Browning 
upholding  her  opinion  of  his  wisdom,  his  genius,  and 
general  nobility  of  character  against  weighty  argu- 
ments brought  forward  by  her  husband  and  Mr. 
Trollope.  The  late  Lord  Lytton,  then  Mr.  Lytton, 
was  to  have  been  their  guest  that  evening,  but  was 
not  well  enough  to  venture  out  on  a  wet  night,  and 
sent  an  apology  for  his  absence.  I  wonder  which 
side  the  future  ambassador,  already  in  diplomatic 
training,  would  have  taken. 


THE  BROWNINGS.  263 

I  think  no  one,  remembering  Mrs.  Browning's 
long  and  fervid,  but  certainly  one-sided  poem, 
"  Crowned  and  Buried,"  could  wonder  that  some  of 
her  enthusiasm  for  the  first  emperor  had  survived  to 
be  bestowed  on  the  nephew  ;  and  her  warmth  brought 
back  to  my  mind  the  talk  to  which  I  had  listened  in 
my  childhood,  when  "  Bonapartists  "  were  discoursing 
on  a  subject  of  which  they  seemed  never  to  weary. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  she  had  some  vague  pre- 
vision of  what  Louis  Napoleon  would  do  for  her 
beloved  Italy,  and  what  he  would  be  for  it  in  fact, 
inasmuch  as  his  downfall  was  the  occasion  of  the 
withdrawal  of  the  French  troops  from  Rome. 

It  was  understood  that  Mrs.  Browning,  even  in 
Florence,  never  went  out  between  October  and  April, 
but  one  day  her  husband  called  on  me  with  a  special 
object.  The  last  time  I  had  seen  the  Brownings  in 
England  the  conversation  turned  to  the  subject  of 
the  then  recent  spiritual  manifestations  which  had 
been  the  talk  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Browning  was  deeply 
interested  in  many  things  I  had  to  tell  her,  her 
husband  joining  at  first  but  little  in  the  conversation 
between  us.  When,  however,  I  offered  to  lend  her 
a  certain  book  on  the  subject,  which  she  wished  to 
see,  he  broke  in,  somewhat  vehemently,  begging  I 
would  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  as  he  did  not  wish  her 
mind  to  dwell  on  such  things.  I  remember  Mrs. 
Browning  exclaiming  rather  warmly,  "  Robert,  my 
soul  is  my  own,"  though,  with  wife-like  obedience,  she 


264  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

yielded.  But  in  Florence,  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 
Robert  Browning  asked  me  if  I  chanced  to  have  that 
book  with  me,  as  now  he  had  no  objection  to  his 
wife  reading  it !  I  did  chance  to  have  it  with  me, 
and  promptly  fetched  it  from  an  adjoining  room,  and 
in  two  minutes,  without  being  at  all  examined,  it  was 
slipped  into  the  borrower's  deep  coat-pocket. 

I  have  always  been  puzzled  at  Robert  Browning's 
subsequent  violent  antagonism  to  what  is  called 
"  spiritualism,"  for  at  the  time  I  mention  he  appeared 
to  have  quite  got  over  his  first  repugnance  to  it, 
and  must  have  respected  a  great  many  people  who 
had  wide  experience  of  the  phenomena.  Of  course 
the  next  time  I  called  on  Mrs.  Browning  the  subject 
was  freely  discussed ;  but,  though  deeply  interested, 
she  was  perfectly  calm  and  judicial,  rejoicing,  how- 
ever, like  the  old  professor  of  Hebrew,  at  every 
outward  proof  of  the  truth  of  her  inward  convictions. 
But  there  were  many  other  things  to  talk  about,  and 
she  liked  well  enough  to  speak  of  Florence  and  her 
darling  son,  then  so  delicate-looking  a  boy  of  eight 
or  nine  years  old,  that  it  gladdened  as  well  as  sur- 
prised me  to  hear  of  him  about  a  dozen  years  later 
as  one  of  the  "  Oxford  Eight."  He  was  a  very  pre- 
cocious child.  At  the  age  I  mention  he  was  an 
accomplished  linguist,  and  I  saw  him  reading  for 
amusement  some  French  or  German  book,  and 
Tuscan  born  and  bred,  Italian  or  English  might 
equally  be  considered  his  mother  tongue.  Mrs. 


ROBERT  BROWNING'S  SON.  26$ 

Browning  told  me  of  an  amusing  incident  in  reference 
to  her  son's  critical  ear  for  language.  One  day  she 
was  speaking  Italian  in  his  presence,  and  had  occasion 
to  use  the  small  word  "  no,"  which  it  would  appear  is 
a  crucial  test  with  foreigners.  "  Mamma  dear,"  ex- 
claimed the  boy,  "you'll  never  speak  Italian  as  long 
as  you  live !  "  repeating  the  word  for  her  edification 
with  its  true  racy  pronunciation.  A  few  nights  after- 
wards I  heard  the  "  no  "  spoken  on  the  stage,  and 
thoroughly  realized  the  difficulty  it  presented  to  an 
English  tongue.  The  boy  was  not  only  a  linguist, 
but  thoroughly  intelligent  in  many  ways,  and  I  heard 
him  play  a  duet  with  his  father  on  the  piano  in  a 
charming  manner. 

On  none  of  my  pleasant  visits  to  the  Casa  Guidi 
had  I  the  heart  to  comment  on  the  absence  of 
"Flush" — whose  acquaintance  I  had  the  honour  of 
making  in  London  some  years  previously — knowing 
well  the  mysterious  depth  and  pathos  there  is  in 
dog  love.  I  do  not  envy  any  one  who  can  read, 
without  some  tender  memory  or  sympathetic  emotion, 
Mrs.  Browning's  touching  poem  to  her  dog  Flush, 
her  "  loving  fellow-creature." 

After  the  sojourn  of  a  few  weeks  in  Florence,  the 
day  of  leave-taking  came.  I  will  only  say  I  kept 
sacred  the  spot  on  my  cheek,  where  her  "  woman's 
kiss"  rested,  as  long  as  I  could,  and  carried  away 
with  me  the  impression  that  closer  knowledge  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  had  made  me  revere  and 


266  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

love  her  more  and  more,  had  made  me  more  and 
more  conscious  that — 

"  Never — never  Woman's  feet 
Clomb  before  to  her  high  seat, 
Yet  to  her  it  seemeth  meet ; 

"  For — true  Woman  stoopeth  she 
To  her  sisters  pityingly 
Teaching  them  beseechingly. 

"  Telling  truths  ne'er  heard  before 
Opening  wide  the  secret  door 
Which  they  pressed  against  of  yore, 

"  Faintly,  vaguely,  murmuring  low, 
'  Oh,  for  one  to  come  and  show 
All  the  Woman's  soul  must  know.' " 

The  Florentines  loved  her  well,  and,  in  a  few  years, 
all  Italy,  freed,  must  have  joined  in  the  tribute  paid 
by  the  people  who  knew  her  best.  Over  the  entrance 
to  Casa  Guidi  is  placed  the  following  inscription, 
written  by  Niccolo  Tommaseo — 

"  Qui  scrisse  e  mori 

ELISABETTA  BARRETT  BROWNING, 

che  in  cuore  di  donna  conciliava 

scienza  di  dotto  e  spirito  di  poeta, 

e  fece  del  suo  verso  aureo  anello 

fra  Italia  e  Inghilterra 

Pone  questa  lapide 

Firenze  grata. 

1861." 

"  Here  wrote  and  died  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  who  with  her 
woman's  heart  combined  the  soundest  learning  and  a  poet's  genius,  and 
made  by  her  verse  a  golden  link  between  Italy  and  England.  Grateful 
Florence  places  this  memorial  stone.  1861."  * 

*  It  is  almost  presumptuous  to  attempt  a  translation  of  this  very 


MR.  SEYMOUR  KIRKUP.  267 

Shortly  before  I  left  Florence,  Robert  Browning 
took  me  to  call  on  Mr.  Seymour  Kirkup,  that 
interesting  old  bachelor,  who,  already  somewhat  of 
a  celebrity,  became  more  famous  a  few  years  later 
in  consequence  of  his  discovery  of  Giotto's  portrait 
of  Dante.  I  wish  I  could  describe  him  as  I 
think  he  deserves  to  be  described,  but  I  only  saw 
him  once.  He  was  an  English  savant,  but  I  under- 
stood had  not  visited  England  for  more  than  thirty 
years.  I  suppose  few  men  could  have  said  more 
conscientiously  than  he  could,  "My  mind  to  me  a 
kingdom  is."  From  all  I  heard  and  the  little  I  saw 
of  him  I  should  judge  that  he  lived  mainly  in  the 
inner  world  of  thought.  Evidently  a  man  of  inde- 
pendent means,  he  seemed  quite  regardless  of  appear- 
ances. He  occupied  a  house  at  the  southern  end  of 
the  Ponte  Vecchio,  his  windows  looking  out  on  the 
Arno.  We  were  ushered  into  a  lofty,  spacious  apart- 
ment, which  struck  me  instantly — and  the  impression 
has  remained  unchanged — as  the  very  type  of  a 
mediaeval  laboratory ;  and  when  Mr.  Kirkup  entered 
the  room,  attired  in  a  long  flowing  garment,  pre- 
sumably a  dressing-gown,  he  seemed  indeed  the  fit 
presiding  deity. 

The  apartment  was  littered  from  end  to  end,  and 
dust  lay  thick  everywhere,  showing  itself  of  course 
most  on  polished  surfaces,  notably  on  an  old  square 

idiomatic  and  expressive  Italian — may  some  other  hand  have  done  it 
better. 


268  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

piano,  which  was  open,  with  music  on  and  about  it, 
and  on  the  floor.  There  was  no  token  of  a  servant's 
duster  or  woman's  tidying  having  been  there  for 
ages.  Globes  may  be  in  any  gentleman's  library 
without  looking  remarkable,  but  I  think  there  must 
have  been  something  hanging  up  or  indicative  of  the 
astrologer's  art,  for  me  to  have  formed  the  rapid 
judgment  which  I  did.  That  he  drew  horoscopes 
I  heard  long  afterwards.  But  the  excuse  for  my 
introduction  to  him  was  the  little  book  about  which 
there  had  been  such  a  fuss,  or  perhaps  I  should  say 
the  subject  of  it,  for  Mr.  Kirkup  had  had  personal 
experiences  of  what  is  called  spiritualism.  He  evi- 
dently had  something  very  like  contempt  for  the 
doubters ;  but  I  fear  that  the  isolated  old  man,  not- 
withstanding his  learning  and  philosophy,  had  got 
hold  of  many  things  by  the  wrong  end,  and  that  his 
was  perilously  near,  what  in  the  Middle  Ages  was 
called,  black  magic.  The  spiritualism  which  has 
converted  Agnostics  into  humble  Christians,  is  not 
necromancy,  but  something  far  purer. 

The  visit  was  not  a  very  long  one,  for,  unless  my 
memory  cheats  me,  Mr.  Kirkup  was  deaf,  and  Robert 
Browning  sat  listening  to  our  conversation  without 
taking  part  in  it — an  uncomfortable  state  of  things 
for  me,  for  much  as  I  admired  his  genius  and  liked 
him  for  his  many  fine  qualities,  I  was  always  a  little 
afraid  of  Robert  Browning ;  he  could  be  so  sarcastic. 
Yet,  unless  there  was  a  grave  fault  that  deserved 


HIRAM  POWERS.  269 

chastising,  I  am  sure  that  he  never  meant  to  wound, 
and  when  he  had  done  so  inadvertently  I  am  equally 
certain  that  he  would  have  been  ready  the  next 
minute  to  perform  a  substantial  service  to  the  one 
he  had  hurt. 

Mr.  Kirkup  lived  to  extreme  old  age — ninety  or 
thereabouts — dying  in  1880,  I  think.  My  slight  ac- 
quaintance with  him  led  to  my  knowing  his  sister,  an 
infirm  and  nearly  blind  old  woman,  who  proved  to  be 
a  neighbour  of  ours  at  Blackheath.  I  often  speculated 
on  the  strange  life  her  brother  had  led  for  so  many 
years,  while  she  was  pining  to  see  him  once  more. 
"Judge  not"  is  a  solemn  command,  but  it  did  seem 
sad  that  these  two  unwedded,  close  relations  should 
be  parted  for  half  their  lives  by  seas  and  mountains, 
and  I  cannot  help  thinking  the  brother  would  have 
been  a  happier  man  if  he  had  cultivated  a  little  more 
the  affections  of  the  heart,  to  balance  the  otherwise  ab- 
sorbing exercise  of  his  mental  powers — faculties  that 
seemed  mainly  brought  into  play  for  his  own  solace 
and  enjoyment  A  little  self-sacrifice  often  brings 
about  a  rich  reward. 

I  have  one  or  two  other  memories  of  Florence 
that  seem  to  me  worth  recording.  I  took  a  letter 
of  introduction  from  an  American  friend  to  Hiram 
Powers,  known  chiefly  in  England,  I  believe,  as  the 
sculptor  of  "The  Greek  Slave,"  a  statue  which 
attracted  much  attention  in  the  Great  Exhibition  of 


270  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

1851.  I  found  him  a  very  unaffected  and  interesting 
man,  in  the  prime  of  life.  Unfortunately,  he  had 
illness  in  his  family,  so  that  I  did  not  see  any  of 
them ;  but  his  studio,  like  so  many  in  Italy,  was 
situated  in  a  garden  some  distance  from  his  house, 
and  with  no  more  disturbing  noise  about  it  than  the 
rustle  of  the  trees,  not  yet  bare  of  their  leaves,  though 
it  was  the  middle  of  October.  The  "  Greek  Slave  " 
was  there,  of  course,  though  probably  not  the  identical 
one  which  had  appeared  in  London,  and  I  was  at  first 
a  little  amused  by  his  depreciation  of  her.  But  when 
I  looked  round  I  began  to  understand  his  jealousy, 
for  that  word,  1  think,  expresses  to  what  his  feeling 
amounted.  Without  detracting  one  iota  from  the 
merits  of  the  "  Slave,"  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
wan  face  and  somewhat  attenuated  figure — so  appro- 
priate to  the  subject — did  not  always  contrast  favour- 
ably with  the  more  serene,  or  more  joyous  expression 
of  other  works.  I  seem  to  recollect  an  Eve  of  sur- 
passing beauty.  A  sculptor's  fame  ought  to  be  one 
of  the  most  lasting,  and  I  hope  that  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  at  any  rate,  Hiram  Powers  is 
recognized  as  one  of  America's  greatest  artists. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  in  1857  Italy  was  still 
in  bondage,  though,  since  the  Crimean  war  especially, 
the  eyes  of  patriots  were  turned  hopefully  northward 
to  the  little  kingdom  of  Sardinia  and  its  gallant  king. 
One  Sunday  morning,  as  I  was  going  to  the  Protestant 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  ITALY.  271 

church,  I  saw  chalked  on  a  low  wall  opposite  our  hotel 
the  words,  "Viva  Victor  Re  d'ltalia."  Of  course  I 
found  them  obliterated  when  I  came  back,  but  they 
were  a  sign  of  the  smouldering  fire,  of  which  I  had 
other  means  of  becoming  perfectly  aware.  It  was  sur- 
prising the  freedom  with  which  on  two  or  three  occa- 
sions shopkeepers  spoke  of  the  political  situation,  and 
of  their  hatred  of  the  existing  state  of  things,  though  I 
really  believe  it  was  only  to  the  English  or  American 
they  would  so  have  spoken.  Then  there  was  an 
Italian  teacher,  a  scholarly  man,  recommended  by  the 
Brownings,  from  whom  I  had  a  dozen  lessons,  who 
enlightened  me  very  much  as  to  the  discontent  of  the 
people,  and  the  tyranny  under  which  they  lived.  It 
appeared  that  the  police  had  a  right  to  enter  a  house, 
and  search  for  what  they  called  seditious  books  or 

papers ;  but  Signor  A chuckled  over  the  fact  that, 

as  he  had  an  English  wife,  it  was  only  necessary  to 
have  her  name  written  on  anything  for  it  to  be  safe. 
It  warms  one's  heart  to  feel  that  England's  mantle  is 
broad  enough  to  shelter  her  children  all  over  the 
world,  and,  even  as  in  this  case,  to  protect  a  foreigner 
sometimes  under  its  folds. 

I  am  tempted  to  mention  another  little  incident 
which  was  gratifying  to  my  feelings.  We  were 
travelling  by  diligence,  and  found  ourselves,  about 
midnight,  at  a  barrier  where  passports  had  to  be 
examined.  I  think  it  was  between  the  Tuscan  and 
Papal  States.  The  vehicle  drew  up  under  a  stone  arch- 


272  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

way,  where  ponderous  gates  had  to  be  opened  before 
we  could  proceed.  I  had  charge  of  the  document, 
which  described  the  height,  noses,  eyes,  etc.,  of  all  our 
little  party,  and,  suddenly  aroused  from  a  dozing  con- 
dition, I  was  rather  slow  in  diving  into  a  deep  pocket 
for  the  passport.  Meanwhile  the  hand  of  a  young 
man  of  perhaps  nineteen  or  twenty  was  eagerly 
stretched  out,  but  before  I  had  actually  placed  what 
he  wanted  in  it,  an  older  man  appeared  at  the  window, 
and  exclaiming  to  his  subordinate,  "  Inglese  ! "  waved 
back  the  passport.  I  think  I  never  heard  so  much 
expressed  by  the  intonation  of  a  single  word  in  my 
life.  It  meant,  "You  fool!  cannot  you  see  they  are 
English  !  Don't  bother  them." 

Another  little  personal  anecdote  I  will  venture  on 
giving,  solely  for  its  comicality.  One  of  my  small 
troubles  during  that  Italian  tour  was  the  impossibility 
of  procuring  so  simple  a  thing  as  a  plain  biscuit,  with 
which  to  supplement  some  unsatisfactory  meal,  or 
assuage  the  cravings  of  luncheon-time  hunger ;  sweet 
cakes  and  dainty  confections  were  to  be  had  in 
abundance,  but  these  were  not  what  I  wanted.  I 
mentioned  my  distress  in  one  of  my  letters  to  my 
husband,  and  he  found  means  of  sending  me  a  case 
of  Lemann's  biscuits  to  Leghorn,  where  at  a  certain 
date  we  should  arrive.  Lemann  was  the  one  great 
biscuit  provider  of  my  youth,  and  with  whom  for 
many  long  years  none  seemed  daring  enough  to 


ITALIAN  OFFICIALS.  273 

compete.  My  treasure,  a  goodly  case  of  about  fifteen 
inches  square,  was  a  great  temptation,  but,  as  it  was 
so  much  easier  to  carry  about  in  its  properly  packed 
state  than  if  disturbed,  I  determined  not  to  open  it 
until  we  were  settled  somewhere  for  at  least  a  few 
days,  and  this  did  not  happen  until  we  reached  Milan. 
I  think  the  passport  difficulty  I  am  about  to  describe 
happened  at  Novara.  The  case  of  biscuits  excited 
great  curiosity  among  the  custom-house  officers.  In 
vain  I  tried  to  explain  that  it  contained  "biscuits," 
"per  mia  salute."  I  had  not  the  Italian  "biscotto"  at 
my  tongue's  end,  but  French  was  supposed  to  be 
understood.  The  chisel  was  just  being  inserted  to  lift 
the  lid,  when  again  an  older  official  interfered,  and, 
holding  his  fat,  protecting  hand  like  a  dome  over  the 
case,  stayed  the  opening,  exclaiming  to  the  other  with 
a  smile,  "  Bif  steak— bif  steak  !  "  Again  I  attempted 
to  set  him  right,  but  he  only  shook  his  head,  with  a 
compassionate  expression,  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Why 
do  you  deny  it  ?  "  Perhaps  he  has  often  told  the 
story  of  the  English  ladies  who  were  travelling  with 
a  case  of  "  Bif  steaks,"  if  so,  I  hope  his  listeners  have 
been  as  much  amused  as  I  am  to  this  day  when  I 
recall  the  scene. 

In  Rome  I  became  acquainted  with  the  English 
sculptor,  Gibson.  He  had  recently  completed  his 
coloured  Venus,  of  which  he  spoke  with  Pygmalion- 
like  admiration.  She  had  lately  cost  him  two  guineas, 

T 


274  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

he  said,  the  price  of  a  pair  of  gold  earrings,  which 
he  pointed  out  dangling  from  her  marble  ears.  Yet 
dangling  is  scarcely  the  word  to  use,  for  it  implies 
something  of  movement ;  and  the  charm  of  the  earring 
lies,  I  think,  in  its  perpetual  motion.  It  may  be  only 
a  silly  fancy,  but  I  confess  to  believing  that  the  ear- 
rings helped  to  vulgarize  the  statue,  making  it  still 
more  realistic  and  less  ideal  than  it  already  was. 
But,  then,  I  did  not  like  the  coloured  Venus  which 
figured  five  years  later  in  the  London  Exhibition 
of  1862. 

Gibson  was  a  worshipper  of  Greek  art,  the  style 
and  manner  of  which  he  copied  successfully,  though, 
in  my  humble  opinion,  with  always  something  wanting 
which  the  ancients  had.  He  said  he  believed  in 
Jupiter.  Yes,  doubtless  as  a  great  pagan  and 
poetical  idea,  but  that  was  all.  Of  course  there  were 
some  beautiful  works  in  his  studio ;  but,  somehow, 
there  was  a  roughness  about  the  man  which  made 
me  less  interested  in  him  than  I  generally  am  in 
artists  of  all  denominations. 

Not  far  off  was  a  studio  where  worked  a  young 
American  sculptor,  Paul  Akers,  whose  productions 
were  unquestionably  of  a  high  order.  I  think  he  could 
not  have  been  thirty  at  the  time  of  his  death,  which 
occurred  two  or  three  years  after  I  first  knew  him  ; 
therefore,  I  suppose,  his  works  were  looked  on  by 
friends  and  critics  as  rich  in  promise  for  the  future 
as  in  performance.  He  was  in  delicate  health  when 


PAUL  AKERS,    THE  SCULPTOR.  275 

I  was  in  Rome,  and  said  to  be  consumptive,  but  his 
energies  seemed  unflagging,  and  he  was  full  of  kindli- 
ness to  a  stranger  in  pointing  out  the  beauties  of 
ancient  art,  leaving  her  in  a  great  measure  to  dis- 
cover the  merits  of  his  own  works.  I  have  often 
wondered  how  far  his  brief  career  has  been  recognized 
in  America.  I  only  hope  that  he  lived  to  see  safely 
established  in  the  "resurrection"  of  marble,  two 
works  which  I  saw  in  the  "  life  stage "  of  the  clay, 
for  they  certainly  deserved  immortality.  One  was 
a  figure,  about  two  feet  high,  of  Saint  Elizabeth  of 
Hungary,  at  the  moment  when,  at  her  husband's 
bidding,  she  opens  her  apron,  and  finds  that  the 
bread  which — contrary  to  the  tyrant's  injunctions — 
she  was  carrying  to  the  poor  had  been  changed  into 
roses.  The  glad  surprise  on  the  beautiful  face — quite 
different  from  the  wild  wonder  of  one  unacquainted 
with  miracles — told  the  whole  story  with  exquisite 
pathos.  What  a  pair  they  must  have  been — the 
mediaeval  potentate  and  his  saintly  but  slightly  dis- 
obedient wife ! 

The  other  clay  to  which  I  allude  was  the  recum- 
bent figure  of  a  drowned  fisher-boy — pearl-fisher, 
I  think — with  the  tangle  of  sea-weed  about  him  to 
tell  the  story.  It  was  a  privilege  to  see  these  things 
in  the  manner  I  did,  and  I  have  often  thought  what 
a  disadvantage  it  is  for  people  to  know  great  works 
only  in  the  "  death  "  state  of  the  plaster,  according  to 
Thorwaldsen's  definition  of  the  three  stages. 


276  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

One  more  recollection  of  Rome,  and  it  shall  be  the 
last.  I  saw  the  Pope,  Pio  IX.,  in  St.  Peter's  on 
Christmas  Day,  1857,  as  he  was  carried  aloft  in  the 
state  becoming  the  day.  His  appearance  was  that  of 
a  portly,  good-tempered,  good-natured  old  man,  with  a 
complexion  as  white  as  his  pearly  garments.  I  had 
long  known  that  that  blanched  skin  in  the  old  was 
a  token  of  length  of  days — it  was  remarkable  in  the 
first  Duke  of  Wellington  ;  and  I  have  noticed  it  in 
many  cases. 


.  H.  HORNE.  277 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

R.  H.  Home— J.  A.  Heraud— Westland  Marston. 

I  RETURNED  to  England  in  April,  1858,  rich  in 
memories,  which  are  still  a  delight  to  me,  and  for 
some  years  I  enjoyed  the  friendship,  and,  more  or 
less,  the  society  of  many  of  the  gifted  ones  whom  I 
have  mentioned  in  these  pages.  But  failing  health 
and  waning  sight,  together  with  residing  just  far 
enough  from  London  to  render  a  little  journey  thither 
a  toil  and  fatigue,  made  me  drop  away  from  the 
opportunities  I  might  have  had  of  bringing  my 
recollections  to  a  later  date.  But  later  recollections, 
which  could  only  refer  to  what  thousands  living  are 
able  to  chronicle,  seem  to  me  of  less  value  than 
records  of  the  decades  which  preceded  the  birth  of 
the  men  and  women  who  are  now  coming  forward 
to  move  the  world.  The  Great  Reaper  has  been 
busy,  for  it  may  have  been  noticed  that,  except 
incidentally,  I  have  refrained  from  writing  about  the 
living.  Yet  there  are  three  authors  I  have  yet  to 
mention — dead  within  these  few  years — whom,  for 
some  reasons,  it  seems  convenient  to  group  together. 


278  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

They  are  R.  H.  Home,  J.  A.  Heraud,  and  Dr. 
Westland  Marston,  Fifty  years  ago  their  names 
were  familiar  ones  to  the  reading  public  of  England, 
but  they  seem  little  mentioned  now. 

On  the  strength  of  his  "  Orion,"  I  venture  to  rank 
Richard  Hengist  Home  as  a  true  and  fine  poet, 
worthy  to  be  ranked  as  such  through  all  time.  It 
has  been  said  that  the  poet  always  represents  his 
age ;  this  is  true  to  some  extent,  yet  if  he  only 
shadows  forth  his  age,  the  probability  is  that  he  will 
die  with  it.  But  there  are  eternal  verities  which  do 
not  belong  exclusively  to  any  period  of  time,  and 
these  are  what  R.  H.  Home  elucidates  in  his  grand 
epic.  "  Orion  "  would  have  been  as  true  a  thousand 
years  ago,  and  will  be  as  true  a  thousand  years  hence 
as  it  is  to-day. 

It  must  have  been  about  1840  that  the  poem  was 
published,  and  in  the  eccentric  form,  which  probably 
is  only  remembered  by  elderly  readers.  For  years 
it  was  spoken  of  as  the  "farthing  epic,"  because 
originally  it  was  published  at  that  price,  with  a 
stipulation,  however,  that  a  purchaser  was  only  to 
take  one  copy. 

In  the  preface  to  a  later,  seven-shilling  edition  of 
the  work,  the  author  explains  his  motive.  To  use 
his  own  words  would  necessitate  a  very  long  quota- 
tion, but  what  he  means  and  distinctly  expresses  is 
that,  while  he  wished  "  Orion  "  to  be  known  to  the 
critics  and  lovers  of  poetry,  he  could  not  afford  to 


R.  H.  HORNE.  279 

publish  it  in  the  usual  manner,  sending  copies  to  the 
press,  to  friends,  and  to  many  strangers.  He  was 
aware  that  the  taste  of  the  public  was  being  so 
corrupted  by  the  burlesque  and  caricature  style  of 
literature,  which  was  then  coming  into  vogue,  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  a  new  poem  of  so  different 
an  order  paying  its  expenses.  He  thought,  however, 
that  curiosity  might  be  piqued  by  the  poem  being 
offered  for  the  smallest  coin  of  the  realm.  The 
result  was  so  far  satisfactory  that  people  did  obtain 
the  closely  printed  pages,  and  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  it  is  a  grave  disadvantage  to  a  new  poem 
to  read  it  in  small  print  and  crowded  lines,  the  work 
attracted  attention  and  admiration,  and  became  for 
awhile  the  town  talk. 

It  must  have  been  early  in  1841  that  I  once  met 
R.  H.  Horne.  I  was  destined  not  to  see  him  again 
for  five  or  six  and  thirty  years.  He  was  at  that  time 
in  the  prime  of  life,  and  enjoying  such  fame  as 
"  Orion "  had  brought  him.  There  had  been  a 
gathering  of  a  party  of  literary  people,  who  called 
themselves  "  syncretics,"  to  which  my  mother  and  I 
had  been  invited.  The  syncretic  society  included 
several  authors  who  had  attained,  or  subsequently 
did  attain  fame,  and  among  these  certainly  were 
R.  H.  Horne,  J.  A.  Heraud,  and  Westland  Marston ; 
but  I  think  there  were  included  many  young  men, 
with  more  aspiration  than  power,  and  who,  with  the 
egotism  of  youth,  thought  in  their  hearts  that  they 


28o  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

were  the  levers  destined  to  move  the  world.  I 
believe  I  was  not  the  only  person  who  nicknamed  the 
syncretics  the  "  Mutual  Admiration  Society."  To  out- 
siders they  seemed  sadly  inarticulate  in  their  teachings, 
deficient  in  that  clearness  of  expression  and  directness 
of  aim  which  usually  characterize  deep  thinkers. 

England  has  often  shown  a  curious  way  of  reward- 
ing her  men  of  genius.  R.  H.  Home  must  have 
been  busy  in  many  directions  for  several  years ;  we 
know  he  wrote  a  tragedy  or  two,  and  no  doubt  he  was 
a  journalist,  but  after  the  gold  discoveries  in  Australia 
he  accepted  employment  as  conductor  of  the  escort 
which  had  charge  of  the  treasure.  When  he  returned 
to  England  a  circumstance  led  to  the  renewal  of  our 
acquaintance,  and  some  time  in  the  "  seventies  "  he 
visited  us  two  or  three  times  at  Blackheath,  in 
a  quiet  sociable  way.  When  I  first  met  him  he 
was,  as  I  have  already  said,  in  the  prime  of  life. 
He  was  about  the  middle  height,  and  rather  portly, 
with  regular  features,  eyes  that  twinkled,  and  thin 
golden-brown  hair  which  arranged  itself  into  little 
corkscrew  curls.  But  five  and  thirty  years  had  of 
course  worked  great  changes,  for  he  was  now  quite 
the  old  man ;  his  gait  was  shuffling,  and  though  his 
eyes  still  twinkled,  they  had  lost  something  of  their 
fire.  He  spoke  a  little  of  his  Australian  experiences, 
especially  of  his  sufferings  from  the  intense  cold  at 
times,  when  he  had  to  sleep  in  the  open  air,  and 
when  he  should  have  been  frozen  but  for  a  hot  brick 


R.  H.  HORNE,  281 

at  his  feet,  the  brick  having  been  heated  in  some 
primitive  manner,  which  he  described,  a  fire  in  the 
earth  being  made  for  the  purpose.  The  life  he  led  for 
so  long  a  time  was  necessarily  one  of  vigilance — the 
life,  of  all  others,  most  opposed  to  the  tranquil  rest 
so  conducive  to  poetical  development.  He  grew 
more  and  more  infirm,  dying  at  an  advanced  age,  but 
enjoying  a  Government  pension  at  the  last. 

The  following  letter  from  R.  H.  Home  may  be  left 
to  explain  itself.  Alas,  notwithstanding  ten  editions 
of  "  Orion,"  the  work  has  not  yet  reached  the  general 
public ! 

"  7,  Northumberland  Street,  York  Gate, 

"Regent's  Park,  W.,  June  23rd,  1877. 

"DEAR  MRS.  CROSLAND  AND  MR.  CROSLAND, 

"  I  will  come  next  Saturday  (the  3Oth)  with 
much  pleasure  by  five  o'clock,  or  earlier,  as  the  trains 
decide.  But  will  you  kindly  send  me  a  post-card 
as  to  the  train  I  should  take,  if  the  hours  differ  from 
the  card  you  previously  forwarded  ?  By  that  card 
I  should  take  the  train  at  4.18,  so  as  to  arrive  at 
Blackheath  at  4,40. 

"Respecting  the  editions  of  *  Orion/  will  you  and 
Mr.  Crosland  tell  me  (after  due  consideration)  how 
many  hundreds  (or  thousands)  of  pounds  are  required 
in  advertising,  in  order  to  enable,  not  merely  the 
public,  but  the  best  people  in  literature,  to  hear  of 
a  new  publication  ?  You  ask  me  if  there  are  any 


282  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

editions  of  '  Orion '  in  a  larger  type  than  those  first 
published — i.e.  any  edition  since  1843,  1844,  or  when- 
ever it  first  appeared.  You  will  both  be  glad  to  hear 
that  the  poem  is  now  in  its  tenth  edition.  There 
was  an  edition  printed,  too,  in  Australia,  besides  many 
in  America ;  but  I  do  not  count  those,  as  I  am 
ignorant  of  the  number.  Since  my  return  to  England 
—and  this  is  the  case  for  the  plaintiff— Ellis  and 
Green  published  the  first  library  edition  in  1872, 
Chatto  and  Windus  another  library  edition,  viz.  the 
tenth,  this  in  1874,  1875.  This  last  is  nearly  ex- 
hausted, and  I  suppose  there  will  be  a  new  edition 
when  the  war  is  over.  Meantime,  you  are  not  the 
only  persons  by  several,  and  all  well  up  in  literary 
matters,  who  have  asked  me  the  very  same  question. 
I  wish  I  had  a  copy  to  send  you.  I  forget  if  I  sent 
you  a  copy  of  '  Cosmo  and  other  Poems ; '  if  I  did 
not,  please  let  me  know,  and  I  will  put  one  in  my 
pocket  next  Saturday,  so  that  if  I  am  stopped  by 
highwaymen  on  Blackheath,  I  shall  say,  *  There, 
take  that.  It  is  by  far  the  best  property  I  possess.' 
In  which  case  I  shall  send  you  another. 

"  I  remain,  dear  Mrs.  Crosland,  most  truly, 

«R.  H.  HORNE." 

J.  A.  Heraud  was  a  totally  different  man  from  him 
I  have  just  briefly  described,  though  I  suppose  he, 
too,  must  be  considered  a  poet;  at  all  events  he 
considered  himself  one  of  a  high  order.  When  I  first 


y.   A.  HERAUD.  283 

knew  him,  early  in  the  "  forties,"  he  was  the  editor  of 
the  Monthly  Magazine,  an  old-established  publication, 
which,  however,  was  beginning  to  languish,  and,  a 
few  years  later,  died  out.  He  had  published  one  or 
two  long  poems,  and  written  several  plays,  but  I  do 
not  think  they  were  widely  known,  or  at  all  remune- 
rative to  him.  Undoubtedly  he  was  a  man  of  culture 
and  great  literary  ability,  a  linguist  also,  I  believe. 
At  any  rate,  he  used  to  speak  as  if  the  acquirement  of 
a  language  were  a  matter  of  only  a  few  weeks.  He 
scarcely,  I  think,  deserved  to  be  called  a  genius, 
though  he  had  his  flashes  of  inspiration;  witness  a 
sentence  which  must  have  been  the  outcome  of  bitter 
disappointment,  "  We  had  not  to  learn  that  Parnassus 
is  rather  a  Gethsemane  than  a  Paradise." 

Mr.  Heraud  was  a  fine  critic,  and,  during  his  brief 
editorship  of  Eraser's  Magazine,  was  the  happy 
medium  of  introducing  Carlyle's  "  Sartor  Resartus  " 
to  the  world.  Some  years  after  I  first  knew  him,  he 
was  placed  on  the  staff  of  a  very  influential  journal, 
where  his  appreciative  and  judicial  faculties  must 
have  had  full  play,  and  where  he  may  be  said 
to  have  "fallen  on  his  feet."  But  in  the  early 
"  forties,"  I  think  he  was  chiefly  engaged  in  endeavours 
to  obtain  recognition  for  his  own  works.  He  was 
a  married  man,  with  several  children,  varying  down- 
wards, from  a  son  who  at  this  time  was  in  the  last 
stage  of  a  lingering  illness,  and  died  before  he  was 
eighteen ;  not,  however,  until  he  had  shown  great 


284  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

promise  of  literary  attainment,  writing  under  the 
nom  de  plume  of  Selwyn  Cosway.  The  family  lived 
in  Burton  Street,  Burton  Crescent ;  but  it  was  in  one 
respect  a  painful  home  to  contemplate,  the  struggle 
with  poverty  was  so  apparent  Mrs.  Heraud  must 
once  have  been  a  pretty  woman,  for,  notwithstanding 
her  trying  life,  she  was  still  comely.  I  should  say 
she  was  fairly  well  educated,  but  for  many  years  had 
had  no  time  for  reading,  consequently  she  had  become 
something  of  a  human  parrot,  repeating  the  praise 
and  censure  of  things  literary  which  she  heard  around 
her.  I  believe  she  was  a  thoroughly  good  woman, 
fulfilling  many  distasteful  duties  in  a  really  heroic 
manner.  Her  hands  were  hardened  by  toil,  and  she 
had  that  look  of  "heart  hunger"  in  her  face,  which 
I  have  noticed  more  than  once  in  the  wives  of 
unsuccessful  men — the  hunger  for  rest  and  peace,  and 
freedom  from  anxiety,  and  for  a  little  of  the  innocent 
pleasures  of  life,  which  are  true  restoratives.  She 
died  in  middle  age,  as  such  women  often  do. 

John  Abraham  Heraud  was  a  kindly  natured  man 
but,  certainly,  the  greatest  egotist  I  ever  knew. 
He  liked  very  much  to  read  his  productions,  or 
selections  from  them,  to  admiring  friends  ;  and  on 
one  occasion  it  had  been  arranged  that  my  mother 
and  I  were  to  go  to  Burton  Street  on  an  appointed 
evening,  to  hear  a  play  of  his  read.  I  believe  two  or 
three  other  friends  were  expected,  but  they  did  not 
arrive.  Not  to  disappoint  us,  the  dramatist  seated 


y.   A.   HERAUD.  285 

himself  at  his  parlour  table,  and  opened  his  bulky 
quarto  manuscript,  the  only  auditors  besides  ourselves 
being  his  two  little  girls,  who  were  seated  close 
together,  cosily  enjoying  the  fire.  These  children 
were  apparently  from  eight  to  ten  years  old,  there 
being  but  little  difference  in  their  ages  ;  one  of  them 
died  young,  the  other  grew  up  to  be  the  actress,  Miss 
Edith  Heraud,  but  whose  health  speedily  broke  down 
under  the  toil  and  excitement  of  her  profession. 
I  heard,  years  afterwards,  that  this  daughter  was 
stimulated  to  go  on  the  stage  by  a  strong  desire  to 
appear  in  her  father's  plays,  and  bring  them  into 
notice.  I  should  think,  from  the  little  I  saw  of  their 
domestic  life,  that  Mr.  Heraud  had  contrived  amid 
all  his  cares,  to  win  the  hearts  of  his  children. 

I  have  very  little  recollection  of  Mrs.  Heraud  that 
evening,  for  she  must  have  been  a  good  deal  out 
of  the  room.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  own  that  I  utterly  forget  what  the  tragedy  to 
which  we  listened  was  about,  or  even  its  name — but 
one  does  forget  a  good  many  things  in  the  course  of 
fifty  years !  And  yet  I  do  distinctly  remember  the 
scene  of  that  parlour.  There  was  very  little  in- 
terruption of  the  reading ;  but  once  my  mother 
made  some  observation,  upon  which  one  of  the 
little  girls  gleefully  exclaimed,  "I  told  you  so — 
I  told  you  so,"  but  with  the  half-lisping,  half-guttural 
articulation  of  a  child  who  had  not  been  taught  to 
speak  or  read  well.  Evidently  the  little  daughters 


286  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

were  familiar  with  the  play,  and  listened  the  more 
attentively  on  this  account ;  for  children  always  enjoy 
a  thrice-told  tale  more  than  a  novelty,  finding  great 
pleasure  in  watching  for  what  they  know  is  coming. 
Woe  to  the  raconteur  who  varies  his  narrative  before 
children.  He  is  sure  to  be  detected. 

I  do  not  recollect  what  the  point  was  that  was 
briefly  discussed  at  the  moment,  I  only  know  that 
the  author  held  to  his  own  opinion. 

The  reading  must  have  lasted  an  hour  and  a  half ; 
at  its  close,  without  waiting  for  comments,  the 
dramatist  exclaimed,  as  he  pushed  the  manuscript 
a  little  away — 

"  It's  as  fine  as  anything  that  ever  was  written — 
it's  equal  to  Macbeth  !  " 

Such  words  seemed  a  thunder-clap — what  could 
one  say  after  them  !  Of  course  we  thanked  him  for 
the  privilege  of  hearing  such  a  work,  with  hopes  that 
he  would  find  fit  actors  to  represent  the  characters. 
I  am  sure  both  my  mother  and  myself  felt  too  much 
for  the  man  to  give  him  pain  by  word  or  look.  It 
was  for  others,  and  for  inevitable  circumstances,  to 
afford  him  a  more  just  estimate  of  his  own  powers — 
that  is,  if  anything  could  do  so. 

I  am  afraid  the  family  must  have  seen  many  vicis- 
situdes. When  the  head  of  it  was  past  work,  it  was 
understood  that  the  proprietors  of  the  influential 
journal  for  which  he  had  long  written,  allowed  him 
an  annuity  ;  but  the  invalid  daughter  was  a  great 


WES TL  AND  MARS  TON.  287 

care  to  him.  He  ended  his  days  as  a  brother  of  the 
Charter  House,  where,  in  his  extreme  old  age,  my 
husband  visited  him,  finding  him  still  interested  in 
literary  affairs  and  in  the  welfare  of  his  old  friends. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1842  that  I  first  knew 
Westland  Marston  and  his  excellent  wife.  He  was  a 
very  young  man,  not  yet  three  and  twenty,  to  be  a 
husband  and  father,  and  the  author  of  a  successful 
tragedy  which  had  been  the  town's  talk.  But  he 
bore  his  honours  very  becomingly,  and  all  the  more 
easily  because  he  looked  older  than  his  years.  I  am 
not  sure,  however,  that  it  is  good  for  an  author  to 
have  great  literary  success  very  early,  for,  whatever 
the  merit  of  his  work,  it  is  looked  on  by  one  section 
of  critics  in  the  nature  of  a  promise  of  still  finer 
things,  and  by  more  ardent  admirers  as  a  standard  of 
excellence  by  which  all  future  productions  must  be 
measured.  If  the  author  himself  happens  to  be  well 
satisfied  with  his  early  work,  his  wings  are  a  little 
clipped  for  future  soaring.  This,  however,  was  by  no 
means  the  case  with  Westland  Marston,  who  was 
always  aspiring,  and  whose  motto  might  have  been 
"  Excelsior." 

Undoubtedly  The  Patrician's  Daughter  deserved 
its  success,  supported  as  it  was  by  Macready's  persona- 
tion of  the  hero,  while  Helen  Faucit  increased,  if 
increase  she  could,  her  hold  upon  the  public  by  her 
personation  of  the  "  Lady  Mabel."  This  tragedy  gave 


288  LANDMARKS  OF  A  LITERARY  LIFE. 

Westland  Marston  lasting  reputation,  for,  as  "  author 
of  the  Patrician's  Datighter"  he  was  known  to  the 
last.  And  yet  most  careful  readers  would  pronounce 
his  later  plays  more  masterly  productions.  His  prose 
writings,  too,  were  also  admirable. 

In  the  "forties,"  which  was  the  period  in  which  I 
saw  the  most  of  them,  the  Marstons*  home  was  a 
delightful  house  at  which  to  visit,  so  many  literary, 
artistic,  and  the  best  order  of  theatrical  people  being 
generally  their  guests.  Mrs.  Marston  was  an  admir- 
able woman,  a  few  years  older  than  her  husband,  and 
the  very  wife  for  him,  for  she  thought  a  poet  was  the 
greatest  of  God's  creations,  whom  it  was  a  privilege 
to  help  and  obey.  There  was  a  widespread  notion 
that  she  was  one  of  the  Irish  Bourkes  ;  not  so,  it  was 
her  sister  who  married  a  Mr.  Bourke,  and  gave  the 
second  name  to  the  poor  blind  son.  Mrs.  Marston's 
maiden  name  was  Eleanor  Potts ;  she  belonged  to  a 
good  family,  and  had  a  moderate  fortune.  I  speak 
with  authority,  for  my  husband,  one  of  Marston's 
oldest  friends,  was  at  their  wedding,  as  they  were  at 
ours,  we  having  originally  met  at  their  house.  Mrs. 
Marston  was  a  well-informed  woman,  but  without 
any  pretension  to  literary  talent,  though  a  keen  appre- 
ciator  of  it ;  and  she  was  musical,  being  a  very  good 
pianist.  She,  however,  neglected  music  of  later  years, 
for  her  husband,  like  two  or  three  other  poets  I  have 
known,  was  indifferent  to  the  syren  voice  of  the 
youngest  of  the  Arts. 


PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON.  289 

They  lost  one  little  girl  in  her  early  childhood,  but 
Mrs.  Marston  was  spared  the  anguish  her  husband 
had  to  endure,  that  of  surviving  their  three  other 
children.  Yet  I  think  the  sorrow  of  their  lives  must 
have  been  the  blindness  of  their  only  son,  Philip 
Bourke  Marston,  who  lost  his  sight  when  about  two 
years  old.  He  was  named  after  Philip  James  Bailey, 
who  was  one  of  his  sponsors,  another  being  Dinah 
Mulock,  subsequently  the  author  of  "John  Halifax." 
When  one  reflects  on  what  the  young  poet  achieved, 
with  the  world-darkness  around  him,  the  imagination 
flags  in  considering  what  he  might  have  been  under 
happier  circumstances. 

Perhaps  the  pathetic  interest  excited  by  the  afflic- 
tion of  the  son  has  rendered  his  productions  more 
widely  known  to  the  present  generation  than  the 
grander,  more  soul-searching  poems  of  his  father, 
but  these  can  never  be  allowed  to  sink  utterly 
into  oblivion.  The  fact  is  that  English  poetry  is  so 
rich  a  mine  that  no  individual  reader  can  exhaust  it. 
Lovers  of  poetry  will  always  have  their  favourites, 
and  it  is  infinitely  better  to  know  half  a  dozen  great 
authors  well  than  to  skim  over  the  pages  of  a  hundred , 
Perhaps  the  time  will  come  when  only  the  few  greatest 
poets  will  be  studied  in  the  completeness  of  their 
massive  grandeur,  while  of  the  somewhat  lesser  ones 
we  shall  merely  have  selected  beauties,  the 

"...  jewels  five- words-long 
That  on  the  stretched  forefinger  of  all  time 
Sparkle  for  ever." 

U 


290  LANDMARKS  OF  A   LITERARY  LIFE. 

Plenty  of  such  jewels  are  there  to  be  found  in 
Home's  "  Orion,"  and  Marston's  "  Gerald  and  other 
Poems."  Possibly,  when  the  day  for  making  selections 
arrives,  treasures,  still  longer  half-buried,  will  be 
brought  before  the  eyes  of  a  rising  generation.  How 
few  young  people  of  to-day  know  anything  of  Gold- 
smith's "  Deserted  Village,"  or  Johnson's  "  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes  "  !  Even  Pope  is  a  little  shelved  ! 

Yet  while  I  am  writing  these  concluding  lines  there 
is  abundant  evidence  that  England,  from  the  throned 
lady  of  the  land  to  the  humblest  reader  of  the 
Laureate's  simplest  verses,  knows  how  to  honour  her 
great  teachers  ;  for  Tennyson  lies  in  his  shroud,  while 
the  great  grave  of  our  "  mighty  dead  "  is  being  pre- 
pared to  receive  his  mortal  remains.  He  wrote  of 
one  he  loved  and  honoured  as  enduring  without 
reproach 

"...  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a  throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot." 

A  "  fierce  light  "  also  beats  on  the  brow  of  acknow- 
ledged genius,  and  for  fifty  out  of  his  eighty-three 
years  he  also  knew  it,  without  there  appearing  a  blot 
to  blacken. 

With  Lord  Tennyson's  death  a  great  epoch  seems 
to  have  been  completed,  and  with  it  I  will  say  fare- 
well to  such  kindly  readers  as  may  have  followed  me 
in  my  "  Landmarks." 


INDEX. 


Aguilar,  Grace,  descended  from  a 
great  Jewish  family  of  that  name, 
171  ;  authoress  of  some  interest- 
ing and  memorable  works,  174; 
her  elevated  character  and  rare 
attainments,  174-178;  her  noble 
and  benevolent  disposition,  174, 
175  ;  her  "  Exposition  of  Zanoni " 
attracted  the  attention  and  warm 
commendation  of  Lord  Lytton, 
then  Sir  E.  Bulwer,  176;  her 
death  at  the  early  age  of  thirty- 
one,  171 

Akers,  Paul,  the  American  sculptor, 
the  genius  shown  in  his  works, 
274,  275 

Alexis,  the  clairvoyant,  179;  the 
remarkable  phenomena  he  ex- 
hibited, 180-183 

Annuals,  the,  Keepsake  and  Friend- 
ships Offering,  etc.,  the  emi- 
nence of  the  original  contributors, 
the  causes  of  their  decline  and 
discontinuance,  95-97 

Ansted,  Professor  and  Mrs.,  visit 
to,  256 

Art  Journal,  the,  its  high  and  bene- 
ficial influence,  131 


B 


Bailey,  P.  J.,  the  author  of  "  Fes- 

tUS,"  212 

Barnard,  Mrs.,  her  life-like  portrait 
of  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall,  125 

Beaconsfield,  Viscountess,  anecdote 
of  her,  103 

Belle w,  Captain,  author  of  "  Me- 
moirs of  a  Griffin,"  cured  of 
hydrophobia  by  an  Indian  native, 
169 

Bernard,  Bayle,  dramatist  and 
journalist ;  the  principal  cha- 
racters in  some  of  his  plays  acted 
by  Try  one  Power,  169 

Birmingham  riots,  the,  anecdotes 
of,  n,  12 

Black  Dwarf,  the ;  visit  to  his 
hovel,  77 

Blanc,  Louis,  description  of  his 
person  and  manners,  189 

Blessington,  Lady  ;  her  home,  Gore 
House,  described;  her  talents, 
manners,  history,  mode  of  life, 
and  appearance,  97-n3>  IJ7; 
her  superb  sapphire  ring,  114  ; 
her  death,  118 

Bonheur,  Rosa,  her  handsome  face 
and  masculine  qualities,  138 ; 


292 


INDEX. 


her  meeting  Edwin  Landseer, 
138 

Booth,  Miss  Sarah,  the  actress; 
her  success  in  the  leading  parts 
of  tragedy  and  comedy ;  her 
retirement  from  the  principal 
London  theatre  when  Miss  O'Neill 
became  famous  ;  her  performing 
in  the  same  pieces  with  young 
Betty,  and  playing  marbles  with 
him  behind  the  scenes,  48 

British  Legion  in  Spain  ;  adventures 
and  cruel  treatment  of  author's 
brother ;  his  return  home  in  the 
most  wretched  condition,  59-62  ; 
his  subsequent  career  and  death, 
63 

Browne,  Frances,  the  blind  Irish 
poetess,  241 ;  her  merits  rewarded 
with  a  pension,  241  ;  her  ex- 
quisite  figure  and  grace  of  move- 
ment, 242 

Browning,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett, 
the  greatest  of  all  poetesses,  145  ; 
a  letter  from  her,  234  ;  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  regard  for  her  and  aversion 
to  her  husband,  233  ;  their  life 
in  Florence,  259;  tribute  to  her 
memory,  266 

Browning,  Robert,  introduction  to 
him,  150  ;  his  expression  of  com- 
manding intelligence,  150;  cha- 
racteristic letter  from  him  to  the 
author,  152 

Brunei,  Sir  Isambard  and  Lady; 
his  skill  and  enterprise  in  con- 
structing the  Thames  Tunnel, 
1 90 ;  their  early  adventures  during 
the  Reign  of  Terror  in  France, 
192;  their  mode  of  life  during 
the  construction  of  the  tunnel, 
193 


Burke,  Walter,  purser  of  the  Victory, 
present  at  the  death  of  Lord 
Nelson,  7 ;  figures  in  the  picture 
of  this  event  exhibited  in  the 
painted  hall,  Greenwich  Hospital, 
7  ;  always  protested  against  Lady 
Hamilton  being  considered  the 
mother  of  Horatia,  8-10 

Burns,  Robert :  author's  visit  to  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Begg,  89 


Carlyle,  Mrs.,  her  eminent  abilities 
appreciated  by  Charles  Dickens, 
240.  Sec  Geraldine  E.  Jewsbury 

Cartwright,  Major,  his  person  and 
career  described,  40 

Chambers,  William  and  Robert, 
their  careers  and  characters  ; 
author's  visit  to  them  in  Edin- 
burgh and  sight-seeing;  their 
admirable  mode  of  conducting 
their  business  ;  Mrs.  William  and 
Mrs.  Robert  Chambers  and  their 
homes  described  and  contrasted, 
74-90 

,  William's  tenderness  towards 

animals,  and  his  love  for  his  dogs, 
91,92 

,  Robert,  his  authorship  of  the 

"  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History 
of  Creation,"  86,  87 

Charlotte,  Princess,  present  at  a 
ball  at  Carlton  House,  15  ;  gravity 
of  her  looks  on  that  occasion,  15  ; 
remarkable  costume  of  one  of  her 
uncles,  15 

Chorley,  H.  F.,  distinguished  as  a 
literary  man  and  the  musical 
critic  of  the  Athenczuni :  a  friend 


INDEX. 


293 


of  Lady  Blessington  and  con- 
tributor to  the  Keepsake,  100, 
101 

Clerk  of  the  Kitchen  "  to  George 
IV.,  Monsieur  V ,  37 

Cowden  Clarke,  Mrs.,  compiler  of 
the  "Concordance  of  Shake- 
speare "  ;  her  admirable  acting  of 
"Mrs.  Malaprop,"  187 ;  her  "Girl- 
hood of  Shakespeare's  Heroines," 
a  work  of  great  merit  and  interest, 
188 

Craik,  Mrs.     See  Mulock,  Miss 

Crowe,  Mrs.,  86 

Cushman,  Charlotte,  a  woman  of 
genius  and  a  great  actress,  206- 
208  ;  her  power  and  skill  as  a 
dramatic  reader,  208 


D'Angouleme,  Duchess,  her  mourn- 
ful appearance,  28 

Davison,  Mrs.,  the  actress;  her 
performance  of  "Lady  Teazle" 
and  other  parts,  43-46 

Davison,  James,  her  son,  who  be- 
came the  musical  critic  of  the 
Times  newspaper ;  his  boyhood, 

44 

"  Delta"  of  Blackivood's  Magazine t 
D.  M.  Moir,  86 

D'Orsay,  Count,  110-112;  descrip- 
tion of  him,  his  residence,  his 
relations  with  Lady  Blessington, 
113-116 

Drummond,  Myra,  the  artist,  paints 
a  remarkably  effective  portrait  of 
Helen  Faucit,  200 ;  employs  a 
soldier  as  a  model  and  afterwards 
marries  him,  202-204 ;  her  pride 
and  poverty,  204,  205 


Emigres,     French.      See     French 
Emigres 


Farren,  Miss,  the  actress,  who 
became  Lady  Derby,  prophesying 
that  Mrs.  Davison  would  be  her 
successor,  46 

Faucit,  Helen  (Lady  Martin),  a 
remarkable  portrait  of  her  painted 
by  Myra  Drummond  ;  her  cele- 
brity as  an  actress,  200,  201 

Fields,  J.  T.,  of  Boston,  U.S.A. 
See  Ticknor  and  Fields 

French  Emigres,  the  family  of  the 
Gautherots  described ;  the  middle- 
class  society  of  the  period  and  the 
fashions  of  the  time  which  pre- 
vailed, 17-23 

Fuller,  Margaret,  the  celebrated 
American  authoress  ;  her  talents, 
characteristics,  and  career,  223- 
225  ;  marries  the  Marchese  Ossoli, 
225  ;  drowned,  226 


George  III.  at  the  theatre,  14 ; 
Queen  Charlotte's  snuff-taking, 
14;  death  of  the  king,  his  life 
and  character  commended,  29 

George  IV.,  incidents  of  his  coro- 
nation described,  33 ;  meeting 
his  discarded  wife  at  the  theatre, 
36 ;  partaking  of  a  steak  in  the 
kitchen  with  some  convivial  com- 
panions, 37 

Gibson  the  sculptor;  his  tinted 
Vcaus,  273 

u  3 


294 


INDEX. 


Governesses,  not  appreciated  sixty 
years  ago,  64 

Greenwood,  Grace  (Mrs.  Lippin- 
cott),  a  charming  writer  of  stories 
and  poems  and  an  able  journalist, 
a  won:  an  of  genius  whose  varied 
talents  have  been  too  much  dif- 
fused, 220 


H 


Hall,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.,  first 
introduction  to  them,  123  ;  their 
residence,  The  Rosery,  described, 
125,  126;  her  character  and 
method  of  study  described,  124- 
127  ;  his  person  and  character, 
124;  his  portrait  admirably 
painted  by  Mrs.  Barnard,  125 ; 
their  golden  wedding,  139 

Hamilton,  Lady  ;  the  parentage  of 
Horatia  discussed ;  Walter  Burke, 
the  purser  of  Nelson's  ship,  the 
Victory,  denies  that  Lady  Hamil- 
ton was  the  mother  of  Horatia, 
7-10 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  his  shyness 
and  reserve  in  general  society, 
211 ;  his  profound  and  subtle 
genius,  210-212  ;  he  and  P.  J. 
Bailey,  the  author  of  "Festus," 
having  a  long  intellectual  conver- 
sation together  without  either 
knowing  who  the  other  was,  213  ; 
Lowell's  tribute  to  him,  213 

Heaphy,  Mr.,  his  extraordinary 
experience  with  the  spirit  of  a 
girl  whose  portrait  he  was  com- 
missioned to  take,  255 

Heraud,  J.  A.,  editor  of  the  old 
Aionthlv  Magazine ;  his  egotism  ; 
fond  of  reading  his  own  plays ; 


his  daughter  Edith  became  an 
actress;  his  wife  a  struggling, 
overworked  woman,  283-286 

Home,  R.  H.,  author  of  "  Orion  "  ; 
its  great  merits  as  a  poem — origi- 
nally published  for  a  farthing ; 
his  career  in  Australia;  letter 
from  him,  277-281 

Howitt,  Anna  Mary,  who  became 
the  wife  of  Mr.  Alfred  Watts, 
superior  to  her  parents  in  intel- 
lect, manners,  and  appearance, 
195,  196  ;  her  "  Art  Student  in 
Munich,"  a  charming  work,  196 

Howitt,  William  and  Mary,  de- 
scribed, 194,  195  ;  their  quarrel 
with  John  Saunders  over  7/fcr 
People's  Journal,  197-199  ;  they 
start  Howitt 's  Journal  in  opposi- 
tion, 198,  199 

Hunt,  Leigh,  introduction  to  him, 
149;  his  manners,  appearance, 
and  conversation,  150 


I 


Italy,  visit  to;  interviews  with  the 
Brownings,  and  their  life  in  Flo- 
rence, 259-264 ;  their  interesting 
and  accomplished  son,  264,  265  ; 
tribute  to  Mrs.  Browning's 
memory,  266 ;  awakening  of 
Italy,  271 ;  comic  incidents  at  a 
barrier  and  a  custom-house,  271- 
273 


Jerrold,  Douglas,  connected  with 
Punch  and  the  Illuminated  Maga- 
zine;  two  sides  to  his  nature,  the 


INDEX. 


295 


serious  and  the  witty,  153;  his 
domestic  life  pleasant,  155  ;  his 
income  sprang  from  ^200  to 
^2000  per  annum ;  author  con- 
tributes to  "Punch's  Snap- 
dragons" for  Christmas,  1844, 
154;  conversation  with  him  on 
"  spiritualism,"  156  ;  a  letter  from 
him,  157;  the  "Punch  set,"  159 
Jewsbury,  Geraldine  E.,  her  great 
talents,  piquancy,  wit,  lucid  and 
epigrammatic  style,  236 ;  the 
friend  of  the  Carlyles,  237  ;  story 
of  the  candles  buried  with  Mrs. 
Carlyle,  238;  her  admirable 
novels,  skill  in  criticism,  and 
literary  avocations,  239 ;  some  of 
her  qualities  resembled  those  of 
Mrs.  Carlyle,  240 


K 


Kean,  Edmund,  his  performance  of 
"Shylock"  and  "Othello"  de- 
scribed ;  his  acting  unquestionably 
supreme,  51-53 

Kirkup,  Seymour,  a  remarkable  and 
eccentric  character,  philosopher 
and  magician,  residing  in  Flo- 
rence ;  much  interested  in  spiri- 
tualism and  occult  subjects,  267- 
269 


Landseer,  Edwin,  his  meeting  Rosa 
Bonheur,  138 

Lane,  Jane,  assisting  the  fugitive 
Charles  II.,  71  ;  the  coat  of  arms 
granted  by  him  to  the  family,  71 

L.   E.   L.,   anecdotes  of,   101-103 ; 


wrote  verses  in  commendation  ot 
Lough's  works,  145 

Le  Vert,  Madame.  See  Madame 
Walton  Le  Vert 

Lind,  Jenny,  her  appearance  and 
character,  135 ;  the  enthusiasm 
and  respect  which  she  excited, 
136 ;  her  qualities  as  an  artiste, 

137 

Lippincott,  Mrs.  See  Grace  Green- 
wood 

London  in  the  days  of  George  IV.  ; 
sedan  chairs  still  occasionally 
used,  38;  old  hackney  coaches, 
39  ;  the  Haymarket  then  used  as 
a  market  for  hay,  39 

Loudon,  Mrs.,  author  of  "The 
Mummy,"  a  novel,  184  ;  her  first 
interview  with  her  husband,  185  ; 
her  pleasant  social  assemblies, 
134,  1 86 ;  her  clever  daughter 
Agnes,  who  married  and  died 
young,  186-188 

Lough,  Mrs.,  the  cultivated,  intelli- 
gent, and  indefatigable  wife  of 
the  sculptor,  146,  147 

Lough,  the  sculptor;  the  great 
works  of  art  which  he  produced  ; 
of  humble  origin  but  a  thorough 
gentleman,  142,  143 ;  his  group, 
"The  Mourners,"  144;  verses 
written  in  his  honour  by  L.  E.  L. 
and  Mrs.  Browning,  145  ;  his 
original  models  bequeathed  to 
Newcastle-on-Tyne,  where  they 
are  exhibited  in  Els  wick  Hall, 
147 


M 


Malibran,  Madame,  her  marvellous 
performances,  56,  57 


296 


INDEX. 


Marshall,  Mr.,  Keeper  of  the  Manu- 
scripts, British  Museum,  68 

Marston,  Philip  Bourke,  the  blind 
poet,  son  of  the  undermentioned, 
289 

Marston,  Westland,  author  of  the 
Patricians  Daughter  and  many 
other  plays ;  an  accomplished 
poet  and  prose  writer,  287,  288 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  visit  to  her 
at  Swallowfield,  228-230;  excur- 
sion to  Strathsfieldsaye,  231 ;  her 
person  and  manners,  232 ;  her 
habit  of  detraction,  233 ;  her 
death,  234 

Moore,  Thomas,  introduction  to 
him,  129 

Mulock,  Dinah  Maria  (afterwards 
Mrs.  Craik),  author  of  "John 
Halifax  Gentleman "  j  introduc- 
tion to  her  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen and  subsequent  intimate 
friendship  ;  her  person  described, 
128;  her  genius  and  authorship, 
140,  141 

Museum,  the  British — old  reading- 
room  described,  67-70 


N 


Napoleon,  Prince  Louis,  meeting 
him  at  Gore  House ;  his  appear- 
ance and  manners,  ill,  112 

Nelson,  Lord,  his  death  at  Trafalgar, 
6,  7  ;  Walter  Burke  assisted  to 
carry  him  below  when  wounded, 
7 


Paris,  visit  of  author's  parents  to, 
26-28  ;  a  curious  French  fan,  28 
Poetic  culture,  reflections  on,  243 


Pope  Pio  IX.,  his  appearance  in  St. 
Peter's  on  Christmas  Day,  1857, 
276 

Power,  Marguerite,  her  beauty  and 
accomplishments,  instances  of  her 
thoughtfulness  and  high  breeding, 
1 10-1 12 ;  calm,  earnest,  and  digni- 
fied, seen  to  weep  but  never  to 
laugh,  109 ;  her  editorship  of  the 
Keepsake,  119-121  ;  her  death, 
122  ;  her  sister  Ellen  became  a 
Roman  Catholic,  121 

Powers,  Hiram,  the  sculptor,  visit 
to  his  studio,  269,  270 


Rothschild,  anecdotes  of  old   Mr. 
and  Mrs.,  41 


Skinner,  Professor  George,  inter- 
view with,  257 

Smith,  Albert,  meeting  him  at 
parties,  an  excellent  waltzer,  160  ; 
conversation  with  him,  160 ;  his 
"  Marchioness  de  Brinvilliers,"  a 
powerful  novel,  161  ;  he  wore  too 
much  jewellery,  162  ;  he  deterior- 
ated as  he  became  older,  162 

Solari,  Marchesa  di  Broglio,  a  re- 
markable old  lady  ninety-five 
years  of  age,  the  maid  of  honour 
to  the  Princess  Lamballe,  165  ; 
her  adventures  during  the  great 
French  Revolution  and  interviews 
with  the  great  Napoleon,  166-168 

Somnambulism,  instance  of,  experi- 
enced by  author's  mother  when  a 
girl,  after  seeing  Mrs.  Siddons 
enact  "Lady  Macbeth,"  12,  13 


INDEX. 


297 


Spiritualism,  author's  experiences 
of,  and  vindication  of  it  as  a  great 
reality,  244-246 

Spiritualists,  eminent,  Professor  and 
Mrs.  de  Morgan,  Sir  George 
Barker,  K.C.B.,  the  Rev.  J.  G. 
Wood,  M.A.,  Robert  Chambers, 
LL.D.,  Mr.,  Mrs.,  and  Miss 
Howitt,  etc.,  247-255;  Mr. 
Heaphy's  remarkable  experience, 
255 

Stowe,  Mrs.  Beecher,  meeting  her 
in  London,  description  of  her 
person  and  the  character  of  her 
hands,  214 ;  the  great  influence 
of  her  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"; 
her  friendship  with  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Sutherland  of  that 
day,  215 ;  anecdote  of  her  and 
the  duchess,  215 

Strangford,  Lord,  his  refinement 
and  old-fashioned  courtesy,  114- 


Taylor,  Bayard,  his  graceful, 
athletic,  manly  person,  209,  210 ; 
his  genius  shown  in  his  "Poems 
of  the  Orient "  and  in  his  masterly 
translation  of  Goethe's  "  Faust," 
210 

Ticknor  and  Fields,  the  eminent 
and  honourable  publishers  in 
Boston,  U.S.A.  ;  Mr.  Fields' 
attempt  to  see  the  preparations 
for  the  Waterloo  banquet  at 
Apsley  House  baffled ;  letter 
from  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
221,  222 

Toulmin,  George,  his  kindness  and 
generosity,  61 


Vert,   Madame   Le.     See  Madame 

Walton  LS  Vert 
Victoria,  Queen,  sonnets  addressed 

to  her  on  her  royal  jubilee,  72 

W 

Wainewright,  T.  G.,  the  forger  and 
poisoner,  tried  and  transported  ; 
while  a  convict  paints  a  portrait 
of  one  of  the  Misses  Power  in 
Australia,  105,  106 

Walton,  Le  Vert,  Madame,  one  of 
the  leading  wealthy  citizens  of 
the  Southern  States  of  America  ; 
her  intimate  friendship  with  Lady 
Emmeline  Stuart  Wortley,  and 
her  introduction  to  the  highest 
society  in  England,  216,  217  ; 
visit  to  the  Mansion  House  with 
her  father,  Colonel  Walton,  for- 
merly Governor  of  Florida ;  his 
disgusting  habit  of  expectorating, 
218  ;  utterly  ruined  by  the  Ameri- 
can civil  war,  she  tried  to  make  a 
living  by  lecturing  and  reciting, 
died  in  great  poverty,  219 

Ward,  E.  M.,  R.A.,  his  distinction 
as  an  artist,  133 

Waterloo,  battle  of,  3  ;  vision  of 
fighting  seen  in  the  sky  the  same 
evening,  3 ;  sensation  in  London 
when  the  news  of  the  victory 
arrived,  4  ;  ladies'  experience  of 
the  battle-field,  5,  6 

Wills,  W.  H.,  marries  Janet  Cham- 
bers, sister  of  William  and  Robert 
Chambers,  93 

,  Mrs. ,  her  talents  and  fine  dis- 
position ;  her  death,  93 


INDEX. 


Wood,  Mrs.  Somerville,  her  miscel- 
laneous assemblies  nicknamed 
"  Menageries,"  163  ;  a  gentle- 
woman, good-natured  but  eccen- 
tric, 164 ;  the  mother  of  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Leicester  Stanhope,  subse- 
quently Countess  of  Harrington, 
164 


Z.,  Mr.,  the  friend  of  Lough,  Leigh 
Hunt,  Robert  Browning,  etc.  ; 
his  ability  and  literary  ambition  ; 
living  beyond  his  means ;  his 
defalcations  and  flight,  148-751 


THE  END. 


LONDON  :   PRINTED  BY  WILLIAM  CLOWES  AND  SONS,  LIMITED, 
STAMFORD   STREET   AND   CHARING   CROSS. 


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